Page 29 of Flame
“Perfect. Now, back to the keys—do we have any suspects?”
He turns the corner into the ice cream aisle. I smile when he reaches for the vanilla ice cream. I want to call him out and ask him if it’s for milkshakes, but I don’t. I’ll let him surprise me later.
I hope.
“Are we thinking it’s Banks?” I ask.
“That’s the obvious answer. But, no, I don’t think it’s him.”
“Why?”
“Gut reaction.” He stops at the end cap. “Regular chocolate syrup or dark?”
“Regular. Why does your gut say it’s not Banks?”
He drops the bottle in the cart. “Because this is a long game. Whoever is doing this didn’t expect to get a quick reaction. This has continued for over a month now, and I don’t think Banks has that much patience. He likes instant gratification.”
“Don’t we all?”
He ignores me. “There’s something I’m missing with this. I just can’t figure it out, and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Who are the other suspects?”
“This isn’t something you can solve in the middle of Miller’s,” he says, chuckling.
“You don’t know what I can do. I listen to true crime podcasts while I run on the treadmill in the mornings. I know all kinds of tips and tricks about how to solve crimes.”
Foxx slows the cart and faces me with one hand on the cart. “When did you start running on the treadmill?”
I stare up at him.After you leftto cope with the sting of rejection.
“We can’t forget hamburger buns,” I say.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I shrug, scooting him out of the way and pushing the cart myself.
“Oh, I see what you’re doing,” he says, amused.
“What am I doing?” I look at him over my shoulder. “Am I Foxx-ing you?”
“When did you start running on the treadmill, Bianca?”
“Do you have Dijon mustard?”
His lips twitch. “Bianca …”
I shrug, grinning. “I’ll take that as a no.” Then I pivot down the condiments.
He’s no more than a few feet behind me. I can feel him matching me step for step. My palms sweat against the handle, and my heart pounds harder the deeper we go into the mustards.
My body sings, happily reverting to muscle memory and how it used to be with Foxx. The easiness. The push and pull. The only place in my life where I felt truly safe.
“Here it is,” I say, grabbing a random bottle off the shelf. I toss it in the basket. “Do we need anything else?”
I turn to find him standing beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets. His face is unreadable, a mixture of annoyance and amusement.God, how I want to kiss it right off him.
“When did you start running on the treadmill?”
