Chapter 23 The Push and Pull
the push and pull [trope]
the exhausting but oh-so-satisfying romantic dynamic where two characters play hard to get, only to fall into each other’s orbit at the most inconvenient times; expect long stares, dramatic exits, and circular conversations about feelings that they both want and resist
“Where would you hide a vibrator?” I ask into the phone, lifting one of the couch cushions and letting it flop back into place.
“Excuse me?” Paige asks. “What’s going on?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I glance at the dust collecting on the floor, another reminder of the chaos that is my life. “Rafael came over. We argued. My towel got stuck in the door, and my vibrator was on the bathroom vanity. He set me free and now the vibrator’s gone.”
She laughs, the sound so high-pitched I move the phone away. “Are you sure you checked everywhere?”
“Nothing on the couch, the bookshelf, the side table, the rocking chair, the TV set.” I groan, rubbing my forehead. “It’s just gone.”
Paige pauses, then surprises me with a burst of laughter. “I’d say he took it.”
Took it? “What… Who does that? Who steals someone’s only source of pleasure?” My cheeks burn as indignation flares. “A sociopath. A menace—that’s who.”
“Or…” Paige cuts in, her tone teasing. “Someone who’s trying to replace it.”
I hear the knock at my door and already know who it is before I even open it. My heart does this annoying little flip, but I remind myself I’m still mad. Enraged, actually. “He’s at the door. I’ll call you later.”
“Tell him he can keep the vibrator if he gives you his d—”
I end the call and yank the door open, ready to tell Rafael off, but the words die in my throat when I see him standing there, all brown curls and soft eyes.
“I couldn’t help but notice your date was…
canceled?” Ten points for not calling me out on lying about having a date like a pathetic teenager.
Twenty points when he lifts a takeout bag, the familiar logo of the Chinese restaurant catching my eye.
My stomach growls on cue, betraying me. All I have in the fridge is half a lemon and a bottle of ketchup, which makes holding on to my anger even more difficult.
Fifty points when he raises his other hand, revealing a folder.
I squint at the name scribbled on top: “The Lit Killer.” I chuckle, head shaking. “I thought you said my nickname was stupid.”
“I never said stupid.”
“Not in so many words.”
Rafael shrugs, that damn smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
I hate how attractive he looks when he does that, the way his gray eyes crinkle slightly, flecks of gold and brown catching the light.
I want to trace every one of his tattoos.
Find out how many more are hiding under his shirt, maybe farther down.
I’m so ecstatic that he’s here, that he’s not done…
that I can’t feel any of the fury I’m supposed to.
He didn’t give up.
The anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it doesn’t stand a chance.
I grab the file from his hands and make my way to the table, flipping it open to scan the contents.
My eyes catch on phrases like “crime scene” and “book-inspired murders,” but I’m acutely aware of Rafael watching me with that quiet intensity of his.
He doesn’t say a word as he sets the takeout bag down on the table, the familiar scent of Chinese food filling the room.
The crinkle of the bag and the soft thud of containers being placed on the table break the silence. I glance up from the folder, catching him peeling back the lids, releasing even more of that delicious aroma.
I like the familiarity of this routine.
He fills my plate with a little of everything, and I keep the folder open as I make room for the plate. As he begins eating, I stand, grab the remote, and hand it over. I still feel his gaze on me as I walk back to my seat, but I focus on my material.
Once he lands on an old sitcom, we eat. He watches TV; I read. I’ve missed this—missed him—and that’s much more terrifying than anything in the folder in front of me.
I look back down at the pages, but the words blur. I’m not angry anymore. I’m scared. Was I ever angry at him? Or is he right, and I just jumped at the chance to break things off?
“Anything catch your eye?”
I flinch. “Uh, I… actually, I’ve been thinking about your father’s murder.”
“Uh-huh.” Rafael lifts his gaze off the screen. “What about it?”
“Well, in The Lonely Man, Rourke was poisoned. There was a letter seemingly written by him to his son.”
“Just like with my father’s murder.”
“But in the book, there was so much more. Ink under the victim’s fingernails, like he’d tried to claw something off a page.
A faint chemical burn on his lips and ash in his lungs, suggesting he tried to burn something before he died.
” I pause. “And the ink? It was this specific shade of red the son always used when forging his father’s signature.
How ingenious is that? Symbolically, it’s—”
Noticing the hint of a smile playing on his lips, I swallow my words.
“It doesn’t matter. The point is, why stop at the poison and the letter to the son? The next murders they recreated were much more detailed.”
“Maybe the killer was testing their plan out. Or they were interrupted.” He clears his voice. “Maybe the first one was meant to be a secret.”
“Or maybe they had the opposite problem.” I keep reading. “The police ruled it accidental.”
He leans forward, intrigued, but I see the slight wince when his arms cross over the table. “While it’s obvious the killer craves attention. Recognition.”
Exactly. I close the folder. “Was it you?”
“Hmm?”
“Quentin ran into someone he thought was the killer, stabbed him.” I point at his arm. “I assume that was you.”
He pulls the sleeve up, revealing the bandage. “You might make a fine detective after all.”
I hiss through my teeth—that’s a pretty big bandage. Did he have to get stitches? “I can’t believe your cousin stabbed you.”
“You and me both.”
“It’s kind of hilarious. You thought he was the killer, he thought you were.”
“Yeah, hysterical,” he says flatly. “Six stitches.” Eyes rolling, he continues. “And I never thought he was the killer. Nobody that stupid can be a serial killer.”
A laugh bubbles out. “Then why did you attack him?”
“Attack him? Is that what he’s saying?” He scoffs. “Idiot. I bet in his story, I’m seven feet tall and had a shotgun, but somehow he managed to overpower me, huh?”
“Well, there might have been some talk about roundhouse kicks. The two of you fighting for your knife—”
“Yeah, that was not my knife. Trust me, if I’d thought for a second he was the killer, he’d have been looking at the barrel of my gun.
” He bites into a dumpling. “I was monitoring calls to the police, went to check out the house, and Quentin nearly pissed himself when he saw me in the building. Scaredy-cat had this tiny-ass pocketknife, and as he fell,” he says, pausing for effect, “he accidentally slashed my arm.”
This time I can’t help it: I burst into a heartfelt laugh. I knew Quentin was full of it, that there was something about his story that didn’t ring true, but I couldn’t have dreamed of something so good.
“Moron,” he says, still shaking his head.
With one last chuckle, I reach for the next paper in the pile. It details a series of large payments made to the Booked It account over the past few months—thousands of dollars, transferred at intervals.
“Rafael,” I say over the sound of the sitcom.
He glances over. “What?”
I hold up the papers. “These payments to the podcast account. What are they?”
He pauses, setting his plate down and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Donations.”
“Donations? Who’s donating that kind of money to podcasts about books?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to track it, but every lead I’ve followed has hit a dead end. Whoever’s making these transfers knows how to avoid being tracked.”
“So it must be connected to the murders.”
“I don’t know for sure,” he says. “But that’s my guess, yes.”
My heart races as I go through the papers again. If someone is using my podcast to plan these murders and then sending us money afterward, what does that mean? Some sort of twisted reward system? A thank-you for the inspiration?
God, this is so fucked-up.
“Did you check that last police report?”
I rush to the last page and quickly read. “Wait… the killer came back to the scene?”
“Just today. And they must have known the police would still be there.” He shakes his head.
“I’ve no idea why they’d do that. They smacked Wes in the back of the head and snuck in—he’s fine, don’t worry.
The police don’t think they took anything either.
When they left, they were so rattled, they knocked down one of the garden gnomes—it’s just… weird.”
I pluck the crime scene photos from the pile and, trying to ignore Ron’s lifeless body, focus on everything else captured by the camera.
It all seems to belong—the faded floral armchair draped with a knitted afghan, the cracked teacup balanced on a stack of gardening magazines, an old-fashioned radio—except… “Is that a hotel key?”
“Hmm?”
“Right there,” I say, pointing as I hold the picture closer.
He leans forward. “It looks like a credit card.”
“No, look, see the orange flower? That’s the Wildflower Inn logo.”
He scratches his jaw mindlessly. “Why would Mrs. Brattle have a room in a local hotel?”
“She wouldn’t. And I bet if you ask the police to find this, they won’t.”
Rafael takes out his phone and begins tapping. Pulling the picture back, I let my next thought slowly trickle in. Theo. Theo had a card key to the Wildflower Inn with him only a couple of days ago. And he was so cagey about it too.
No. Theo, one of my best friends, is not the killer. He’s just not.
I go through more papers, finding my name everywhere. Information about my family, my love life, friends.
“Psycho,” I whisper, just loudly enough for him to hear.
He nudges me with his elbow. “Did you say something?”
I playfully glare at him. “I want my vibrator back, psycho.”
With a snort, he resumes eating.