Page 10 of Christmas Criminal

Her foot is still searching, and there's a part of me that wants to leave her there. At least while she's tipped over like that, she can't attack me, and something tells me once she finds out there neverwasa spot she missed, she's not going to be very happy.

I approach cautiously, nudging the step stool to where her foot can reach it, and peer over the edge of the float.

I look at the spot she's been working on and cock my head to the side when I see theredoesseem to be a darker line through the rest of the floor.

"I wouldn't worry about it," I tell her. "People are going to step on it anyway."

"Butwhy won't it be painted?"she asks. "This is so frustrating. Like, I get that it doesn't matter. But it feels incomplete. If I'm going to spend this much time on a goddamn paint job, it better be freaking done!"

I glance down at it again as she looks behind her, one hand finding the edge of the float to push herself up.

And I realize the darker spot spreads with her movement.

I start snickering.

Her foot is still searching. "Jesus Christ, did you move my step stool? Are you playing a joke on me?"

I shake my head. "No, look," I say, pointing to where the gray spot continually moves. I wave my hand above my head, making our shadows dance. "It's a shadow."

She pauses, letting out a quick breath through her nose. "It's a fuckingshadow?"She shakes her head, pushing herself up again. "Seriously, did you move my step stool? I can't get down."

I glance down and knock it another inch closer to her foot, but she seems to be doing everything in her power to avoid it.

I roll my eyes, dropping the bag of food to the ground and stepping behind her to grab her by the ankles and tug her feet down until they make contact with her stool.

And wow, even her ankles are attractive. A little bony, but her skin is soft and warm.

"Thank you," she says, clambering down to the floor and standing with her hands on her hips. "I can't believe a fucking shadow got us."

Gotus?Yeah, it's probably in my best interest to let her believe that.

I lift the bag of food. "Hungry?"

"Yes!"

"Come on." I nod to the door and she throws her purse over her shoulder as she follows me out of the garage and through the empty high school halls to the cafeteria on the far side of the building.

"Ugh, this place," she says, wandering into the open space and spinning around slowly. Her shoes tap against the linoleum floor as she walks. "It always looks weird with all the kitchensboarded up and the tables up against the walls. Way better than when it's filled with a ton of kids, but still weird."

"Where do you want to sit?" I ask her.

She shrugs. "I don't care. It's a school cafeteria. No spot is a good spot."

"Well, you get to choose. Any spot."

Her eyes narrow. "Is this some sort of healing bullshit or something? Because if so, I don't need it. I'm an adult. I'm not still hung up on things that happened in high school."

Judging from the strange looks that overtake her face at random moments throughout the day, I'd have to disagree. Walking through the halls, she visibly flinches when we pass certain areas. And every once in a while when she doesn't think I'm paying attention, she cringes, her head shaking as if she's reliving some horrid experience.

I'm no stranger to what a bad high school experience can do to someone. I was one of the lucky few who actually had an okay time in high school, but when you become a teacher and start looking at kids' behaviors as indications of what might be going on inside, you get a whole different picture.

And as much as we don't want to believe it, a lot of those reactions don't change as you get older.

You just get better at hiding them.

She lets out a long breath. "I want to sit by the cookie station."

I raise my eyebrows. "Yeah? Do you want a cookie? I made friends with Rita the lunch lady and she gave me a copy of the key to the kitchens."

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