Page 20 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Carson

What the hell am I doing, standing in the woods eating frosting-filled snack cakes while planning a murder? Protecting her. That’s what.

“I understand why you need to do this,” I say, licking sugar off my thumb like it’s normal to discuss body disposal over Little Debbies.

“Do you?” She eyes me like she can see the sins in my shadow. The things I’ve done with musical accompaniment.

“I know what he did to you,” I say. “It’s public record.”

She stiffens, shoulders locking up. “That public record doesn’t tell half of what he did to me.”

I cross the space between us and open my arms. She melts into me like I’m home. Like I’m hers.

“I know that, sweetheart.” My voice drops softer than I knew it could go. “I’ve seen the spaces between the lines, on dropped charges, bruises that don’t match the statements. I’ve read the truth in hospital forms that say ‘accident’ when I know better.”

She shakes against me. “I won’t blame him for what I am. I made this. I took what he did and I turned it into something sharp. But goddamn it, he broke parts of me that don’t grow back.”

I pet her hair. “What you are is a treasure. A public servant like me, but better. One not bound by policies that let monsters walk away clean.”

She’s crying now, but it feels like a wound finally breathing air.

I hold her tighter. Let her feel the warmth, the promise. That I see her. That I choose her.

“This kill, Walter, it’s yours. I won’t step on that.

But let me make it safe. If you freeze, I’ll be here.

If you don’t, I’ll wait and help you clean up.

Whatever you need.” I pull back just enough to see her face.

“You want it close? I’ll bring knives. Distance?

I’ve got a Beretta. You want him screaming?

I’ve got restraints. Tasers. Rope. You name it. ”

When the tears ease, she tilts her face up, lashes clumped and eyes raw. “You’d really do all that for me?”

“I will.” No hesitation. No apology. “Whatever it takes. And if this ends it, if Walter’s the last, then we walk away clean. And if he isn’t?” I shrug. “We refine the process. No more close calls. No more ‘me’s’ showing up with files and too many questions.”

She breathes slow, like she’s trying to memorize this moment. This us. “What do we do now?” she asks.

There’s a strange look on her face, vulnerability that snuck in through the cracks. Like she’s leaning on me without realizing it. That bastard Walter did that. He hollowed her out and she filled herself with steel.

Now I get to help her polish the blade. “We clean Derik’s DNA out of your SUV.” I pause and let a smile pull at the edge of my mouth. “Then maybe we get pizza. And more snack cakes.”

We get to work. Not in theory. Not in some vague future. Now.

She follows me back to my place in silence, headlights slicing the dusk. I pull into the garage; she parks in the drive like she belongs there.

We move without talking much. Just a nod here. A glance there. I hand her gloves and bleach and heavy-duty bags. She takes them like they’re tools for something holy.

And maybe they are.

Together, we strip the SUV down to its bones. Everything that can’t be cleaned gets bagged. Everything that can gets bleached until it gleams. Carpet scrubbed. Rubber mats torched with cleaner. Every inch of DNA erased like it was never there.

And when we’re done, we don’t stop.

I break out the wax. We wash the outside until the water runs clear, then polish the whole thing until it shines like her. Gleaming. Untouchable.

I’d already phoned in the pizza, it’ll be here in thirty. We’re wiping down the windows, laughing about something stupid she said about a bug that tried to land on her cheek, when I hear the crunch of tires.

Fuck.

It’s Cookie.

That nosy, meddling harpy of a neighbor pulls into her driveway like she owns the entire block but doesn’t even glance toward her own house. No, she beelines straight for us, beady eyes, tight mouth, judgment locked and loaded.

She stops two feet away, arms crossed, nostrils flared.

“I expected better of you,” she tells me, like Jennifer isn’t standing right there with a bottle of Windex in one hand and murder in her eyes. “You know she’s fucking that creepy mortician. And someone saw her handyman stumbling off this morning looking like he dicked her.”

“Lucky bastards,” I mutter.

Jennifer doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m not fucking Edgar. Yet. He found your pastries wanting, so we put it off until I have time to bake him something properly.”

God help me, I feel like a proud dad. A deranged, complicit, frosting-sticky dad.

And it’s good to know she’s not fucking Edgar. Yet. Not that it matters. Not really. I mean, she’s free to do what she wants. We’re not married. Just because we’re cleaning up murder together doesn’t mean I have a claim.

Cookie doesn’t like the grin I’m wearing. “Oh, don’t look so smug,” she snaps. “You don’t even like sweets.”

And then, because she can’t help herself, she zeroes in on Jennifer like a crow picking through roadkill. “If you thought you could out-bake me, you’d enter something in the fair. Put those basic-ass cookies where your mouth is. It’s lemon themed this year. Can you even zest?”

Jennifer’s smile turns predatory. Soft. Sweet. Like arsenic in a lemon tart. “I plan to,” she says, calm as can be. “I’ve got just the recipe.”

Cookie didn’t expect that. She huffs like she’s above it, then stomps off toward her porch, keys jangling like tiny, angry bells, heels clicking like a cartoon villain without the charisma.

Jennifer watches her go, then turns to me with a brow raised. “Was that an invitation to duel?”

“She’s been trying to bait someone into a baking pissing contest since 2012,” I say. “You might be the first one dangerous enough to take her crown.”

She tosses her cloth into the bucket. “Did you reject her baked goods?”

I glance over. “I don’t like sweets.” Then, after a beat, I add, “Well. Didn’t.”

The pizza shows up right on time, like it knows not to piss her off. We head inside. She doesn’t comment on my bare walls, utilitarian furniture, total cop chic. She just kicks off her shoes and makes herself at home. Like she’s not covered in traces of exhumed corpses.

I grab two plates, pour my coffee, her soda. Ice clinks like background music. She’s already tearing open the tiny packets of parmesan like she found them in a box labeled “do not open.”

“What are you baking?” I ask, watching her drown her slice in powdered cheese. “I can help, if you want.”

She pauses, squints at me. “You bake?”

“Not directly. I don’t kill either,” I say, and take my first bite. “But I’m a hell of a support team.”

“A baking accomplice,” she says thoughtfully. “I like that. Edgar can taste test, and Blake can provide moral support. He did invite me to the fair, so there’s that.”

I swallow, chew slower. “What do you need?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe the taser you offered.” She frowns. “Cookie’s actually good. I lied. Edgar loves her pastries. I mean, she owns a bakery. I just… ad-lib from Pinterest.”

“Okay, first of all you don’t ‘just’ anything. Second, if Edgar’s the pastry pope, get his opinion. I’ll handle procurement. Flour. Sugar. Sabotage.”

“Carson?”

“Yeah?” I set my slice down. Something about her tone tightens things in my chest.

“It’s a lot. Walter. Edgar. Blake. And now… cookies or whatever.”

I hate the way her voice dips at the edges.

“I’m built for a lot,” I say.

She smiles, soft and crooked, then dumps more parmesan on her pizza like the emotional moment didn’t happen. “You are built for something. That jaw? Absolutely made for sitting on. Got any more cheese?”

I stare at her. Then at the parmesan. Then back at her. “Did you just segue from oral sex to condiments in the same breath?”

She sighs like I’m the one being weird. “I don’t even know what date we’re on. Not that it really matters. I mean, I have rules. But they’re for bastards, and you’re not that.”

I raise a brow. No argument.

She lifts a finger. “But. I slept with Blake this morning, and it would be rude to sleep with you the same day, unless we were all, you know…” She gestures vaguely. “In the same bed. Like a threesome. Which I’m not opposed to, because damn, you’re both…”

I cough loudly.

“…but we’d need to talk about it first. So I can’t sit on your face until there’s a respectful time buffer between orgasms. For Blake’s sake.”

“I see,” I manage.

She nods. “Not tomorrow, though. I have a date with Edgar.”

“I see,” I say again.

“It was already set,” she shrugs, totally unapologetic. “Parmesan?”

I get the cheese. Because how the hell do you argue with a woman who schedules her sins in chronological order and makes every single one sound like a public service?

“We can kiss, if you want,” she adds, perfectly casual. “To see if it even feels right, or if maybe you’d rather arrest me than fuck me. Because that would get complicated. I can’t be arrested. Women everywhere are counting on me.”

“Eat your damn pizza,” I say, voice low. Because if she says one more charmingly unhinged thing, I’m going to start drawing up a very serious ethical justification for turning this kitchen table into a shrine to her thighs and letting her use my face as a throne.

She grins like she knows it. Takes a bite. Chews slow. “So… that’s a no on the kiss?” she asks, voice light but eyes heavy with something darker.

I hold her gaze. My blood starts doing laps under my skin. “Didn’t say that.”

She sets her slice down. Wipes her fingers on a napkin. Real slow, like she’s buying me time I didn’t ask for.

“Well, if we’re doing it,” she says, rising from the chair, “I think it should be here. In your sad little kitchen. Right where we made that beautiful parmesan pivot.”

I stand. I don’t remember doing it. She’s there, suddenly close enough I can smell sugar and sweat and something faintly herbal, like lemon balm and menace.

“I meant what I said,” she says. “I can’t be arrested.”

“I’m off-duty.”

She tilts her head, pretending to consider. “Still. If this goes sideways, I’ll have to bury you with the others. Probably label you ‘friendly fire.’”

“Fair,” I say. My voice isn’t steady. It’s hoarse. Like my throat forgot how to handle air now that she’s in it.

And then she kisses me. Just presses in like she’s claiming the breath from my lungs, and I let her. It’s the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission, just slides its fingers down your spine and tells you who’s in charge now.

I brace a hand against the counter to keep from losing my knees.

She tastes like cheese dust and soda and something dangerous.

Her tongue flicks against mine like a dare, and I make some noise in the back of my throat that definitely wasn’t English.

My free hand finds her waist, then stops, because any further and I’m going to forget all about respectful time buffers and good cop behavior and just pull her onto the counter like a sinner.

She breaks the kiss first, lips brushing mine like an aftershock. Her eyes are dark and amused and goddamn victorious.

“Huh,” she says, breathless but smug. “It does feel right.”

My brain radios for backup and no one responds. “You’re going to kill me.”

She hums, running a thumb along my jaw like she’s mapping out where to sit. “Not tonight.” Then she turns, grabs her soda, and walks off like she didn’t just dismantle me with her mouth.

I brace on the counter, running a mental background check on every decision that led me here. I try to stay put. Try not to tail her like a rookie with a hard-on and a suspension incoming.

I fail.

Because she winks like she’s issuing an arrest warrant for my last brain cell. And if she told me to lay down and play dead, I’d be halfway to the floor like a K9 drop-out with no impulse control and a weakness for suspects in lip gloss.