Page 33 of Running Feral

And also away from the paranoid place that still sees Eamon lurking in every corner. Which is less abrasive now than a few days ago. But I think that’s because I’ve acclimated to theconstant sense of dread, not because it’s actually lessened. I still think I see him, hear him, smell him, or whatever, a hundred times a day. But my body was already used to coasting on the jagged edge of an adrenaline rush from one minute to the next, so shifting to this particular kind of adrenaline rush hasn’t been too much of an adjustment.

It’s fine. It’s a feeling I know how to work with. If it never goes away, I can deal with that. As long asEamongoes away.

The reality of that happening isn’t great, but I’m not ready to seriously think through that yet.

I do, however, have something else to distract the both of us with for a little while. Something where I can be useful for a change.

“I was thinking last night while you were at work.”

I turn around and lean back against the kitchen counter, resting on my hands while the coffee sputters and percolates behind me. Gunnar continues to poke at the eggs and sausage, which are apparently the only non-microwavable foods he keeps in the house, but he gives me a wary look all the same.

When I don’t get a verbal response, I take that as a sign to continue.

“I think I have a plan to help Kasia.”

Gunnar frowns. “That’s not what I thought you were going to say, but okay. Hit me.”

“You said he was a pedophile, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, his frown deepening as his gaze returns to the eggs. “She found awful shit on his phone. I know she still feels guilty about not being able to do anything to stop him, but she did everything she could. She filed reports, tried to get other people to file, made anonymous complaints. There was never enough evidence. And she couldn’t exactly stalk him when she filed for an order of protection that prevented contact between them.”

I nod along, because all that tracks.

“Totally. I get it. I probably would have felt responsible, too, if I were her. Because he’s this piece of shit, and she’s been the one serving him breakfast all those years. Knowing he was a scumbucket and having made her peace with the repercussions that had for her, but not realizing how much farther it went.”

Gunnar is staring at me instead of the eggs now. I’m not sure if it’s because the breakfast comment was too on the nose considering he’s currently cooking for someone who is technically a criminal squatting in his apartment, or because I let too much of my own thoughts slip out like an unstoppable moron, but I’m going to power through.

“Anyway,” I shake my head, as if that’ll help me focus. “The point is, I get it. But there really was nothing she could do that probably wouldn’t have led to him killing her. People like that protect their secrets closely, because they know how bad it would be if it got out. But also, because they always, always,alwayshave evidence. I think it’s something about the way their minds are broken. They can’t let go, even if they know it makes them more likely to be caught. There’s always evidence if you look hard enough. I’ve seen like a thousand documentaries on sex offenders, and it always ends the same way.”

Gunnar’s eyes narrow at that. “So, in addition to watching every piece of fictional cinema that’s been designed to deep-fry your brain cells in human misery, you also watch documentaries about pedophiles. That’s what you’re telling me? Is that the next stage in how you’re planning on taking my television’s virtue?”

It’s not really funny because of the topic of the conversation, but it kind of is. Also, he just looks so fucking serious as he says it. Spatula in one hand, the other on his hip, those forearms still working hard to distract me, and just a teeny tiny bit of sweat beading on his forehead from the oven. One of the only imperfections I’ve ever seen on him, and it still looks like sprayon. The perfectly formed sweat droplets of someone who always has their shit together.

So fuck it. I laugh. I laugh and turn to pour us the coffee before I finally get to the point.

“I’ll tell you what, if you go along with my genius plan, we can watch something boring about baby panda bears or whatever normal people like. Promise. But hear me out first.”

“I know I’m not going to like this,” he grumbles, but doesn’t object.

“There has to be evidence. That’s my point. And he knows that she can’t touch him and she’s also the only one who probably knows this about him, or at least believes it. So, he thinks he’s safe. Arrogance is also a common theme with these guys.”

Gunnar rolls his eyes, but I’m assuming it’s directed at Jorden and everyone like him rather than me.

“So, let’s go get it.”

Now I have his attention.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘let’s go get it’?”

“Exactly that.” I put his coffee on the counter next to him while he unfreezes his brain enough to plate up the food. “Let’s go get it. This man cannot possibly live in a fortress. He’ll have evidence of his horrific federal crimes somewhere in his home, I would bet anything on it. And I’m literally a professional cat burglar.”

Gunnar stares at me. This isn’t new information to him, but for whatever reason—either the fact that I’m acknowledging it out loud, or maybe just the playful enthusiasm I’ve got going on now that I finally don’t feel like baked shit for once—his mouth is hanging slightly open, and his synapses can’t seem to form a sentence to reply to me.

I do the only natural thing, clawing the air in front of me very slowly and hissing like a cat to get my point across.

“See?”

Gunnar blinks.

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