Page 21 of Murder Notes

“The feds do that to people,” my father corrects. “We need to have a press conference at daybreak tomorrow.”

“A press conference is a bad idea,” I say.

“We’re having a press conference,” my father reiterates.

“Tell them I happened to be here and Andrew asked me to help.”

“We’ll tell them together,” my father says. “You need to be there and at dinner tomorrow night. I need to go.” But he doesn’t go. He hesitates and uses what I call his “Dad” tone, a softer hard, which is his best attempt at tender. “Lilah,” he says. “Good to have you home, even if it is a bloody return.” He hangs up, ending any impact of his “tender” moment abruptly. What the hell is it with these men just hanging up on me?

Andrew snatches his phone and it immediately beeps with a text he glances at, his sharp expression telling me he is not pleased even before he looks at me again. “I have to go handle this problem.” But like Dad, he doesn’t go. He stays, his attention fixed on me. “You look good. Thin, but good.”

I roll my eyes and reply, “You look good. A little chubbier than before, but good.”

He laughs. “I have never been chubby in my life,” he says, already heading to the doorway leading to the foyer.

“You might not be chubby,” I call out, “but you are an asshole. Don’t tell a girl she’s fat or a little thin. You tell her she looks good. She looks beautiful. No wonder you’re single.”

He stops in the archway and turns to face me. “About that. I’m not single and I should warn you before you find out the wrong way. I’m dating Samantha Young.”

I blanch but recover quickly, certain I’ve misunderstood. “What?” I ask, stunned. “As in, the Samantha Young?”

He laughs. “Yes. The Samantha Young.”

He’s amused as if this is nothing, when he knows damn well he’s just punched me in the gut. “For how long?”

“Six months and I know there’s no love lost between the two of you, but we’re going to fix that.”

“She dated my ex. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“It’s a small town and it was years ago.”

“Andrew—”

“Lilah,” he says firmly, a warning in his tone. “I have to go. I’ll be at the station at seven.” He turns and starts walking.

“That’s it?” I demand to his broad shoulders. “We aren’t going to talk about this?”

“Come lock up,” he calls out, disappearing into the hallway.

I purse my lips and pursue him, fully intending to let him know what I think about this piece of news. But by the time I’ve entered the foyer, he’s about to exit the house when he stops dead in his tracks. I follow his gaze to the corner where Cujo rests, my lips thinning. Damn it, he’s going to make this an issue. Sure enough, he rotates to face me, his blue eyes keenly locked on my face. “Why do you have a shotgun by the door?”

I walk to Cujo and pick him up, facing Andrew. “This is in case you piss me off. You did.”

“Lilah,” he warns again. He’s always warning me in our conversations. It’s his thing. I decide to turn the tables.

“I’m holding a loaded weapon, Andrew. You could at least act a little intimidated.”

“I’m shaking in my size-thirteen boots. But now—”

“Thirteen?” I give him an appalled look, glancing down at the growths at the end of his legs. “Wow. Those really are monsters. When did they get that big?” I glance up at him. “Please tell me you have the equipment to back those up. If not, that would be downright embarrassing. I mean—”

“Stop talking,” he says, clearly not enjoying my attempt to divert his questions. “What is going on with you?”

I stare at him, blinking several times.

“Lilah,” he growls. “Answer me.”

“You said stop talking.”