Page 80 of Retool

“Thank you,” I said.

Indira nodded and sipped her cocoa.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” I said.And I glanced around.“And this makes me look like I’m insane, I am realizing in exactly this moment.”

Indira laughed quietly.But all she said was “Sometimes it helps to have a project.Something to do.The nights can be long, otherwise.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

“I’m not trying to get rid of her,” I said.“Or erase her or anything.”

“I know.”

“I—it felt like it was time.”

Indira nodded.“Dash, it’s your house.Your home.”

We sat there for a while.

“She wasn’t always that way,” I said.“Or maybe she was, but there was—there was more, you know.I don’t think a lot of people saw that.”

“She was a complicated person.”

I nodded.It felt like something huge shifting inside me, a glacier cracking, a sheet shearing off and plummeting into dark water.My eyes stung.I shook my head, wiped my eyes, and took a deep breath.

Indira rubbed my back.

“She wasn’t a good person,” I said, my throat tight, and even though I fought to get the words out quickly, the tears came faster.“But she didn’t deserve that.”

“I know,” Indira said quietly, and I started to cry.

Chapter 28

After a good cry (and more hot cocoa), I went back to bed.The next day, I woke up feeling as tired as I’d been the day before, but with that hollowness that follows overpowering emotions.I dragged myself out of bed.I made myself shower and eat breakfast and go downstairs.Bobby was on leave pending an investigation into the shooting, and Keme and Millie were home too.We talked about things we could do to get out of the house, but my mood must have been catching because we didn’t go anywhere, and we didn’t do anything.Bobby lay on the chesterfield, listening to his music.Keme and Millie went upstairs.I pretended to read.(Which is way easier than pretending to write, for the record.)

I was pretending to read with my eyes closed when a knock at the door jolted me awa—uh, upright.Bobby tapped his earbuds and said, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”But I moved over to the window that looked out on the veranda.Julian stood there in that too-short raspberry-colored trench coat with the ridiculous flared hem.

I groaned.

“Which one is it?”Bobby asked.

I groaned again.

“What’s up?”Bobby sat up.“The sheriff?Oh, not that—” And here he said a word that the sheriff wouldnothave appreciated.“—guy Spenser?”

“No,” I said.But I did groan again—surprisingly, it made me feel better.“It’s Julian.”

Bobby said, “Oh.”

(Has your fiancé ever said,Oh?It’s not a good sign.)

“I’ll tell him to go away,” I said.

“No, Dash, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.He has some seriously messed-up expectations if he thinks I’m going to—if he thinks he and I—if he thinks—What’s Hollywood lingo for when there’s lots of kissing, and if it’s on the CW, the guy’s shirt falls off?”