Chapter 63
SIXTY-THREE
Getting away with murder
LILA
A month later
Delicious Dimples:
We’re here. Are you ready?
Me:
Why don’t you get in here and find out?
Sassy today. I like it.
I sashay to the front door, watching for him through the peephole. Although most of the people involved in the STK casino crime ring are either dead or arrested, I’m still a bit jumpy when I’m alone. After today, my short stint at solo living will come to an end.
Not because Kenzie’s coming back. She was arrested, and although she made bail, she’s got an ankle monitor and has to stay at her mom’s house. She’s effectively grounded. Interestingly enough, I believe it’s the only time in her life that’s happened.
As of today, Reed and I will be cohabitating. I broke the lease on the apartment, and am willingly moving to his penthouse in the sky.
Well, an average condo on the fifth floor. Whatever.
I bounce on my toes when I see Reed bopping up the sidewalk to my front door. He’s in a T-shirt with FBI written across the chest in huge block letters. Odd. He doesn’t tend to broadcast that.
Rather than opening the door for him, I opt to wait for his knock. Just to see if he knows how.
It’s never been his strong suit.
Knock, knock.
My head kicks back in shock. “Perhaps he can be domesticated,” I joke with myself, sadly, no fun ghosts around to laugh with me.
Flinging open the door, I leap into his arms. Since I conked out last night while packing, it’s been forty-two days since I’ve seen him. Or about twelve hours. Same difference.
“Hi, dimples,” I squeal, squeezing him with all my might. I’m hit with a whiff of a new fragrance. Spicy and woodsy. “You smell . . . nice. Different, but nice.”
His hug isn’t quite the same either. Nary a butt squeeze in sight.
Withdrawing from the embrace, I squint at him through suspicious eyes. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
I smack the firm chest of the man who is definitely not my Reed, then put my fists on my hips. “Seriously, Sawyer?”
It’s then that I notice the fine print on his shirt that says: Female body inspector.
Reed reveals himself, trudging from the shrubs like a reverse Homer Simpson gif. “I told you she wouldn’t fall for it.”
Sawyer shrugs. “Not my fault that you look haggard as hell from those bargain basement skin products you use.”
Turns out, Reed’s twin has expensive tastes. Everything from beauty aids to kitchen appliances. And he’s proud to death of them. Just ask, and he’ll tell you what to buy in any given situation. Read his book if you don’t believe me.
My handsome man rolls his eyes, striding toward me to wrap me in his arms. While hugging me, he teases his brother. “Oh, sorry. I was raised by wolves, and we didn’t bathe in minerals from the Dead Sea.” He peppers a row of kisses along the curve of my neck before releasing me.
“A better brand of facial cleanser will go a long way,” Sawyer insists. “I’d be happy to give you some suggestions. What do you use now?”
“He doesn’t use a facial cleanser,” I interject. “Just regular soap.”
In the showy fashion I’m rapidly growing accustomed to, Sawyer pantomimes a knife plunging into his chest. Then he gasps for air, stumbling over the boxes until he collapses onto the couch. After a dramatic pause, he shudders out his last breath as his hand plops like a dead weight to the floor.
And the curtain closes on another fabulous performance.
Needless to say, Perry—or Sawyer as I’m being forced to call him by threat of violence—got the overacting genes.
Ignoring his brother’s theatrics, Reed surveys the boxes lining all available space in our tiny apartment. “Is this everything?”
My chin juts forward. “Not enough for you? There are at least thirty boxes in here. And more down the hall.”
Granted, some of them are small, and most of them have more packing cushion than belongings, but still.
Still pushing up daisies on the couch, Sawyer thrusts his arms straight out in front of him, meaning they point to the ceiling. He does a corpse bend to bring himself upright like he’s rising from the dead. In a perfect Mushu impression, he wails, “I liiiiiiiive!”
Reed’s twin does impressions. Lots of them. Constantly.
While my man pretends to detest the constant frivolity, I see the joy twinkling in the back of his mocha eyes.
With each impression, joke, or silly story he’s forced to endure, Reed brightens like the sun.
He’s reliving a lifetime of love and laughter, recouping a piece of the childhood that was stolen from them.
The other night, Reed told me he was having a hard time articulating his brother’s personality. We kicked around a myriad of options before Reed ultimately came up with the most inappropriate one. It kills me to share this without censoring it. But here goes.
If happiness were cum shots, Sawyer would have impregnated the entire state.
Told you it was inappropriate.
It’s sort of true, though. I’ve never met someone so high on life. Compared to him, I’m Eeyore.
If they spend much more time together, Reed’s frown lines will turn into smile lines. And no doubt, Sawyer will tease him about not using a quality wrinkle cream.
And I couldn’t love it more for them.
The last month has been a whirlwind for their budding twindom. Aside from some clunky moments, they’ve fallen into a groove. It’s uncanny how well they fit together. Aside from Sawyer’s coffee addiction, they have oodles in common. You’d think they never knew life without their other half.
It’s beautiful.
And a tad bittersweet, if I’m honest.
The other night, Reed asked if it bothered me to witness them reconnect. He offered to dial back the time spent getting to know his twin if it was dredging up grief about Zara. I laughed in his face. Almost as much as when he told me I was Jessica Rabbit.
While it was so perfectly Reed of him to suggest such madness, I would never want him to do something so preposterous. In a strange way, it’s healing a piece of my soul to see how they shine together.
Reed’s heart beats in time with mine. If he’s happy, then I am too. Simple as that.
However, he still hasn’t told his brother the gut-wrenching story about what happened when they were put up for adoption as infants. He’s been dodging it like Patches O’Houlihan’s wrench, determined to save his twin from the heartache.
On the night he told me, I did my best to reassure him that it would be better for Perry to learn the truth from him, rather than finding out on his own. Although he agrees, he still hasn’t found the strength to do it.
He can’t put it off forever, though.
A knock at the door shakes me from my meandering thoughts. “I’ll get it.”
After a quick check of the peephole, I welcome Kri and her hubby to the moving party.
“Hey, killer,” Kri teases, faking a punch toward my midsection.
Her hand falls suddenly, and her expression morphs from playful into a sharp cringe. She reminds me of how I looked the time Mrs. Hayes pulled the cookies out of the oven five minutes too late.
Shocked and devastated.
“What?” I ask, struggling to hold back my laughter at her killer joke.
She rambles through an explanation, remorse coating each word like fondue. “That probably wasn’t funny. I bet you’re upset about what happened. Too soon, right? Gah. I’m sorry. I don’t always do well around females in a social setting.”
I flash my splayed palms to stop her pointless apologies. “You’re fine. Seriously.” Unleashing my megawatt smile, I finally free my laugh at the joke.
“It’s actually not too soon. It’s right on time. I probably should feel bad about killing Casablanca, but given the situation, I’m not upset. He was an evil murderer. I asked myself, what would Kri do. And then I answered it by jabbing the blade I hid in my bra right into his neck.”
When she’s done snickering, her pretty blue eyes widen as if challenging my assertion. “You sure you aren’t upset about it, though? It’s okay to have complicated feelings.”
I shrug. “It’s possible I’ve buried how I’m supposed to feel about taking a human life down in the abyss of my psyche with all my other trauma.
But until my first therapy appointment, it can stay down there and keep the rest of my woes company.
And to be honest, he was barely human. More like a snake in human skin. ”
She nods, finally shrugging off her misplaced regret. “But wait. Did you say Casablanca?”
My explanation is cut off when another hunk comes strutting down my sidewalk, which might as well be a fashion runway at this point. Only, instead of the hottest styles, it’s the hottest people.
“Honk, honk,” a deep voice bellows, heralding the arrival of another helper. “Truck is here. Giddy up!”
“Hi, Luke!” I wave at Agent Cowboy. “Thanks for helping.”
He winks at me, fully turning up his charm. “No problem, little lady. Anything for the sweet thang who eliminated Carnage for us.”
I’m too young for hot flashes, right? Right?
Every time I’m reminded of what I did, I’m trampled with renewed fear I’ll be hauled off in cuffs. If not for taking him out, then for what I did in the casino.
But nope.
According to SSA Chase and her boss and his boss and her boss, no charges will be filed against little old me. The investigation is still ongoing due to all the red tape, but based on the witness statements and my cooperation, the assistant US attorney has already stated that I’m free and clear.
Poof! Done.
Not only did I get the guy. I got away with cheating in a casino, concealing a bogus kidnapping, and . . . well, I guess I got away with murder.
Reed says it isn’t murder, though. Not by the definition of the law. He said it’s a non-criminal homicide. That’ll look better on my resume. Still no job offers, if you can believe that.
As an aside, he also said he jabbed the razor deeper into Jabali’s dumb neck when he pounced on him. I guess we killed him together.
Nothing says love like joint noncriminal homicide.
Oh well. Soon, it’ll all be a blur in the rearview.
Just like this apartment and my old life.