Page 8 of The Crime of Intensity

I snap my fingers. “Right as rain.”

Seth chuckles as I head into my office to finish up some paperwork. Wrench plunks down at my feet and I only have thirty minutes in my office before I have to go out and smooth over a fight at the diner.

A couple of hours later I’m finally able to enter the apartment above the sheriff’s office and kick off my shoes. Wrench jumps onto the couch next to me. I’m so bone-tired. Unable to keep my eyes open long enough to find the bedroom, I simply close my eyes and fall asleep on the couch.

I’m dreaming of coffee, or at least I think so ’cause the smell is teasing my nose and activating my body to fill the craving that’s arising inside me. Groaning, I drag my upper body forward and move my head left and right to stretch out the kinks of falling asleep in a sitting position.

“Are you always dead to the world, sleeping in uncomfortable-as-fuck positions?” Marvin grunts, making my head whip in the direction of the chair across from the couch.

“What the hell are you doing inside my home?” I growl and glare at my dog who is plastered against Marvin’s leg, and grumble, “Traitor.”

Marvin smirks and pets my freaking dog while taking a sip of his coffee. “I can get into anything.”

Except for my pussy, my dirty mind quips. Where the hell did that thought come from? The resolute denial now makes me wonder what it would be like to have sex with Marvin. The way we always go head-to-head could mean fireworks between the sheets…kinda like angry, make up sex.

Damn. Somehow it sounds enticing. Yeah, never going to happen, especially with him moving into town and becoming undersheriff. I shake my head to clear it of my twisted train of thoughts and get to my feet. I need coffee if I need to handle him this early in the freaking morning.

Marvin follows me into the kitchen. “It was a quiet night, leaving me with all the time I needed to run the names of all the kids fostered by Arthur and Beth Bronson, who used to live on the property Eastlynne bought. Eight foster kids in total and three of them fit the profile.”

Suddenly wide awake I turn and gape at him. “Three? What the hell? Are you telling me the Bronson family created a cesspool of crazy?” I grab a mug and fill it up while I mutter, “Though, not all serial killers are crazy psychopaths and being a psychopath doesn’t make a person a serial killer. Fostering children means they are not connected by DNA, the brain of a serial killer simply functions differently than a normal human brain, but something must have happened during their time at that farm. Do you have the files here?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You can have them after you’ve had some coffee. Let me fix you some breakfast.”

He takes a step in the direction of the fridge and I mutter under my breath, “Good luck with that,” knowing there’s nothing in there.

I’m a workaholic and most times swing by the clubhouse or the diner to get something to eat. It saves time and throwing out groceries because they always go bad with me not taking the time to relax and fix myself something to eat. Damn, but I’m hungry and wouldn’t mind seeing that annoying man making me breakfast.

My eyes practically bulge out of my head when I notice the fridge is stocked to the brim. “You went out to get me groceries?”

He doesn’t turn around and grabs eggs, bacon, sweet peppers, and other stuff. “Not just you, boss lady. I’m taking the guest bedroom so this will be my apartment, and my fridge as well. And I happen to like eating and having the cabinets stocked.”

What. The. Actual. Freaking. Fuck?

CHAPTER FOUR

– MARVIN –

She’s fuming, I can tell by the death glare she’s giving me. If she knew how my cock hardens every damn time she throws her sass and glare around? She’d probably make a run for it or shoot me in the balls, whatever crosses her mind first.

Yesterday I’d learned that we communicate in a civilized matter whenever we discuss leads and crucial case matters.

It’s for this reason I start to explain, “The three foster kids were never on the ranch at the same time. Murphy Rambeau, Thorn Kendrick, and Robin Almond. Robin is a woman by the way.”

Kathleen steps closer to the counter and leans a hip against it as I start to chop up the sweet pepper.

“A female serial killer? No. That doesn’t add up.” She snatches a piece of sweet pepper and pops it into her mouth.

I keep slicing and dicing. “I agree, but like I said, she fits the profile and we need to be thorough.”

“I’ll call my father later today and ask for a meeting with Weston, Roper, and a few of the others. They all might have some information about some of the foster kids, or at least about the Bronsons.”

“Breakfast first, work later,” I tell her and whisk the eggs, adding a bit of milk.

“Who taught you how to cook?” she questions.

I shoot her a grin. “My parents and some of the old ladies at the clubhouse.”

Kathleen settles with some coffee at the kitchen table.

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