Page 29 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

How long has he been trailing me? Does it matter? I’m not speeding. I’m not weaving. The back’s empty. The bodies are gone. Burned to anonymous ash.

The night air claws in through the window crack, cool and damp with that faint metallic reek of rot still clinging to the upholstery. Edgar took the tarps, but the SUV still smells like I hosted a backyard barbecue for the damned. Febreze is not going to cut it. That’s like trying to baptize a demon with a wet wipe.

I adjust my rearview. Try not to look guilty. Try not to think about the fact that I am guilty. Just… not for anything you can prove.

Yet.

The car follows me. Not tailgating, just… lingering. Creeping along behind me like an unpaid intern with a notebook and no self-respect.

I clock it turning onto my street just as I swing into my driveway. Cute. It parks a few houses down, half-tucked in the shadow of a dying oak like that’s subtle.

Am I being hardcore surveilled for dumbass Greg? He’s not even worth the calories I burned driving his corpse. This is such a waste of municipal funding.

Okay, Carson. You sexy narc bastard. Let’s see where we stand.

I act like I don’t notice him, just a totally normal woman whose backseat hasn’t recently doubled as a mobile morgue. I go inside and start assembling a picnic like it’s Operation: Peg a Cop with Pepperoni.

He said he liked savory. Well then. The ultimate midnight savory snack? Pizza. I pop one in the oven, extra meat, stuffed crust, criminal intent. Twenty minutes later I’m showered, changed, and smell like Victoria’s Secret’s idea of please don’t arrest me. I’m slicing the pizza into perfect little seduction triangles, the kind of slices that say I might be guilty as shit but can feed you real good.

Two sodas go in the basket, Cherry Coke, obviously. Also two Zebra Cakes, because maybe he doesn’t like sweets, but I sure as shit do. This isn’t just bribery. This is foreplay. And nothing says don’t arrest me, Daddy like warm pizza and dessert cakes nestled beside a girl who smells like sin and probable cause.

I step outside with a woven basket on my arm like the world’s horniest Red Riding Hood, fully prepared to wreck Officer Carson’s life with cheese, carbs, and inappropriate eye contact.

I stroll. Slowly. Casually. Like I’m not crossing state lines of decency just by existing. I stop when I’m directly across from his car.

He looks away.

Oh please. I can feel your surveillance, Carson. That window tint isn’t fooling anyone. I cross the street and tap on his window with one nail.

“Miss Lane,” he says, like he’s trying to shove me back into a box I’ve already exploded out of.

“Jennifer,” I correct, all smile and sin. “You’ve been parked here long enough. Figured you might be hungry. Or nosy. Or both.”

He freezes like a raccoon caught mid-heist. “Excuse me?”

“Spying on me must be exhausting,” I purr. “And we need to talk.”

“Get in,” he says. It’s halfway between an order and a plea, like he hasn’t decided whether to cuff me or kiss me.

My thighs twitch. Dangerous men with guilty eyes are a kink I didn’t realize I had. I circle the car, slow like a woman who’s definitely not armed but knows how to ruin a man’s life. I slip into the passenger seat and plop the basket down between us like a chaperone.

“I’ve never been in a police car,” I say, eyeing the dashboard. “Thought there’d be more blood. Or at least a donut.”

“Most people haven’t,” he replies.

“The pizza’s still hot.” I pop open a Cherry Coke, sip, and sigh like a woman in a bath, not a stakeout. “I already ate. With Edgar. I assume you followed me?”

He doesn’t deny it. Just grabs a slice like this is some kind of stakeout date. “You ate. At the funeral home?”

I should not be noticing how good his mouth looks when he chews. But I’m noticing. Hard.

“Sure,” I say, biting back a grin. “It was a whole date-like thing. Real candles. Corpse-adjacent.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just stares at the steering wheel like it wronged him. Good. I want him off balance. I need to know what he knows other than how to seduce unintentionally.

“Edgar is…” he starts.

“A charming man,” I finish for him. “Didn’t accuse me of murder. Isn’t staking out my cul-de-sac like he thinks I chopped up Greg for being a chromosome short of a decent human.”

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