Page 46

“I can fix your sink now,” I blurt out.
Isla blinks, confused.
“I mean…” I make a halfhearted sweeping motion with one hand. “I don’t have any other pressing plans.”
“Don’t you have detective work to do?” Isla says.
“Are you a detective?” Grace asks.
“I’m trying to be,” I say, standing. “I can look at all these articles at home later. You don’t want to let a leaky sink go unfixed. It can open the door for mold and rot.”
“Mold and rot,” Isla repeats. I can’t tell if she likes this new me or not.
“If you want to solve a crime, the first place you should start is victimology,” Grace says.
“Huh?” I ask.
“It’s a subset of criminology,” Grace explains. “It focuses on objectively studying all aspects of a victim’s life to better understand how they came to be victimized.”
“Where did you learn about that?” I ask.
“I read,” Grace says.
“I thought you were into physics,” I say, glancing at the book in her hand.
Grace shrugs. “I read about a lot of things.” She cocks her head. “Can you teach me how to fix a sink?”
“Sure,” I say. “If it’s okay with your sister.”
Isla looks at me, her expression torn. I hold my breath.
“Fine,” she says. “You can pick up the furniture while you’re there.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ISLA
This. Is. So. Weird.
Caden is currently under the Thorn’s sink, explaining something about P-traps to my sister. Grace sits cross-legged at his side, her head tilted to better see what he’s doing. My father stands on the other side of the kitchen, watching with a slightly bemused expression.
I can’t blame him—I’m still processing this new Caden too. I try not to think about the way he looked at me before Grace interrupted. The tension that seemed to pulse between us. I can still feel the heat of his gaze, like flames licking over my skin. I pick up one of the salt and pepper shakers off the kitchen island just for something to do with my hands.
Caden says something to Grace that makes her laugh. My eyes are drawn to his long legs, encased in dark jeans. One knee is crooked up and there’s a small splatter of water on the hem of his tee. He moves his arm and my gaze catches on the sliver of exposed skin as his T-shirt rides up, the muscles across his stomach rippling. I almost drop the salt and pepper shakers, putting them hastily back on the island.
“There,” Caden says, emerging from beneath the sink and wiping his hands on his thighs. “All set, sir.”
“Thank you,” my father says. “What do I owe you?”
“No charge,” Caden says. “I’m happy to help.”
Dad makes some protestations, though I know on the inside, he’s relieved. “Well, that’s very kind of you,” he says.
Caden turns on the faucet to test the sink. Cords of muscle shift in his forearms as he washes his hands.
He bends down and checks the pipe.
“Looks good,” he says. “But let me know if it starts leaking again.”