Page 136 of Dying to Meet You

“Why? Is something else wrong?”

“No, baby.” He locks the door behind him, gives Lickie a pat on the head, and sits down beside me. “It’s my break, and I just wanted to make sure you’re not freaking out.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” I make an exaggerated shrug. “Someone left Tim’s wallet right here.” I point at the table. “The way a cat leaves a dead mouse on your bed. And the police wonder if I did it. Or maybe you. Did they visit you?”

He shakes his head. “All they had to do was check the data for this.” He lifts one leg and pulls up his pant leg to reveal the black device strapped around his ankle.

“Oh.” I’d forgotten all about that thing.

“Yeah.” He drops his cuff. “That’ll be the only time I’m grateful to be tagged like cattle. But I’m pissed off I wasn’t here when someone walked into your house with a dead guy’s wallet.”

“Seriously,” I grumble. “Could really have made yourself useful.”

He flashes me a sudden smile. “Aw, Rowan. You must be losing your mind.”

Part of me wants to bristle, because Iamlosing my mind. “Do you really want Natty working at Docksiders?”

Harrison passes a hand over his beard and lets out an awkward chuckle. “I don’t know. Kind of like the idea of keeping an eye on her. Especially now. But she’s so young. Seems like I was never that young.”

I have to grudgingly admit that I don’t hate the idea of him looking out for her. “She’s going to forget the tartar sauce and the garnish. Be gentle.”

He smiles, but then he puts his head in his hands. “Can’t believe she found that wallet. Did you see it? Was it really his?”

“Yeah. It was.”

“Shit.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Obviously, someone is trying to scare you. Or point a finger at me.”

“Or me,” I point out.

“You need cameras to monitor the house.”

“Yeah, I realize that.”

“I’ll order them tonight,” he says, straightening up. “With express shipping.”

“No.” It comes out a little sharp. “I’ll do it.”

“Okay. And you’ll keep the doors locked?”

“OfcourseI will.”

His smile is quick, but fleeting. “I’ll walk the kid home tonight. Told her not to leave before me.”

“Thank you.” My shoulders drop a tiny fraction. The truth is that I want the help, even if it’s from him. The idea of her biking home alone at midnight gives me the cold sweats. “If her shifts don’t match up with yours, I could pick her up some nights.”

“Or I’ll bike home with her,” he says. “I would just have to remember to let my probation officer know when I do that.”

I take a moment to process what he’s said. A snort of laughter bursts from my mouth. But then it happens again, and I cover my face to try to stop laughing.

“Rowan?” he demands, possibly because I seem deranged.

“Aren’t we just the c—” I hiccup. “The cutest little family? You have to tip off your probation officer before picking up the kid”—I try to take a deep breath, but I shudder instead—“so that a murderer can’t follow her home.”

“What, like that’s weird?”

I howl. My throat tightens from laughing, and the sensation feels almost like the sting of tears.

Because it is.