Page 81 of Deathtoll

“I could call the next shift and ask them to come in an unmarked car.”

Her face lit up again. “Could you, please?”

Murph pulled out his phone and texted Harper. A second later, Harper texted back.No problem.

“All set.”

Mila stepped aside. “Look at anything you’d like. But if anyone else shows up early, please pretend you’re just another prospective buyer.”

“Want me to say I love it so much, I’m offering full price?” Murph joked. “Bid it up a bit?”

She laughed. “Thank you, but no. That would be cheating.”

He left her at the door and walked straight through to the laundry room in the back, inspected the lock on the inside. Same as on the outside, no sign of tampering. And the key hadn’t been stolen. It was hanging on a peg on the wall. Murph even tested it to make sure it was the right key.

Then he hung it back up, stood in the middle of the room, and looked around. Nothing out of place. And yet, his cop instincts kept prickling.

As he turned to leave, the window caught his eye. The orientation of the window, more specifically. He looked out. Kate’s bedroom window was directly across, he realized when she appeared behind the glass, wrapped in a towel. Her curtains were open to only a small gap, no more than six inches, but it was enough. Their gazes locked.

She shook her head, her tightening eyes transmittingWhat the hell, Murph?as clearly if she’d spoken.

He drew up his shoulders in a way he hoped conveyedSorry, didn’t mean to be a Peeping Tom.

She snapped the curtains closed.

Right.He had no idea what to do about her anymore. Lately, it seemed no matter what he did, he’d just screw up. Which was why he hadn’t gone in to talk to her the night before.

He checked the laundry room again, without finding any sign that Asael had ever been in there, then he walked out the back to inspect the ten or so feet of grass separating Betty’s house from Kate’s.

No footprints that he could see. No cigarette butts or gum wrappers or any other random garbage under Kate’s bedroom window, or anywhere else, no sign that anyone had been out there lately.

He walked around to Kate’s front door, then knocked. They couldn’t not talk forever.

She opened up, fully dressed, her cheeks tinged with red from obvious anger, her eyes narrowed to slits.

“No!” she said, but stepped back to let him in.

Hunter rose from a chair by the kitchen table, leaving his mug of coffee behind. He nodded at Murph, gauged the density of tension in the air, then strode off toward the back of the house mumbling, “Gotta use the bathroom.”

Coward.

Then they were alone, the sudden storm that had risen in the foyer intensifying by the second.

Before Murph could ask what was wrong, Kate put her hands on her hips and stuck her chin out. “You are not buying that house.”

What house?

“You are not moving in next door to keep an eye on me. This is not normal. This is not healthy. This is exactly why I asked for time and space.”

“Kate—”

“This is not space! You can’t live next door.”

“Kate—”

“Dammit, Murph. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Why can’t you listen to me?”

And she went on. And on. The protest died on Murph’s lips. He took her in, the red-hot fury, that pitch in her voice that said she was nearly in tears. She was stressed to the max, and he was part of it.