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She had a Ruger 22. It might be evidence, so it’ll need to be handled carefully.

Chores done, I use the bathroom, brush my teeth using one of the two guest sets, and stalk back to the living area.

“All yours.”

She yawns and unfurls herself from the chair, her legs dragging as she passes me by.

After a quick check that the windows and doors are secure and the only way out is via a key in my front pocket, I return to the bedroom. Rather than getting ready for bed, she’s standing stock still in the middle of the room, staring at the dismantled bed. I keep my expression stony as her eyes slowly shift to me.

Her mouth flops open. “Where…”

I can only guess she hasn’t checked under the mattress. Possibly because she’s hoping I didn’t find it.

I slide my hands into my jeans. “Did I put the murder weapon?”

Her eyes widen, and she sucks in a breath, wincing as her lungs remind her they’re still recovering. “I didnotmurder anyone.” She chokes it out.

I shrug off her comment. “Time to sleep. Do what you need to, but leave the bathroom light on.”

She hesitates, her chin lifting, her shoulders squaring as her eyes dart from the bathroom to me. “I can’t sleep with the light on.”

As she hovers, I kick off my boots and take the bed farthest from the door. “Try an eye mask. There’s probably one in the bathroom.”

I fold my hands behind my head as she scowls at me, backs up, switches off the lighting in the room, and pulls the bathroom door closed a fraction so less light spills into the room. “It’s just?—”

I let out a growl. “This isn’t up for negotiation.” And it’s not. I’m not dumb enough to risk her sneaking around in the dark.

Her shoulders stiffen. “Fine. I’ll take a shower?—”

I shake my head. “You can wait until the nurse shows up tomorrow.”

A delicate shade of crimson colors her cheeks before she slams the bathroom door shut at precisely the moment I realize I never checked the bathroom for weapons.

Eight

Samantha

What a jerk. Bad enough I’m stuck here with him, but he’s just as vindictive as I thought he’d be.

No shower. Lights on. Is he trying to make me as uncomfortable as possible?

Except… the socks.

I twist my mouth to one side. And maybe the food.

And, admittedly, the old TV show he picked was pretty funny.

Shaking off the thought that he’s not one hundred percent jerk, I check to see if my underwear is dry enough to wear again. I should’ve guessed—it’s still damp. Without thinking, I grab the hair dryer off the wall, yawning as I switch it on. It’ll take longer than a real dryer, but at least the memory card will be safer tucked in my bra than stashed in my bag again.

I don’t even get the chance to make progress before the door flies open and Mick yells over the whir of the dryer, “Turn it off!”

To provide evidence of what I’m doing, I dangle my bra in his face. “I’m drying myunderwear.”

His face twists, and he leans back as if the lace is on fire and he might get burned from a spark. “It’ll dry overnight.”

“But—”

His chin drops, and he leans in closer, his eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to get on my last nerve? Because it’s working.”