"I just think we should give him a teeny, tiny, little bit of grace while we wait to see what he’s thinking."
It’s been two hours since we left the station, and Penelope’s still obsessed with this idea that Logan’s just hiding his feelings.
The man blows hot and cold more than a thermostat in spring.
"He’s a dick. We already established this when he rejected ."
"Yes..." The way she drawls her agreent with such reluctance has rolling my eyes. "But he saved you on the mountain."
"It’s literally his job to save civilians from supernatural attacks."
"He paid for your hospital bill."
"Allegedly."
"He seems to have an interest in keeping you safe."
I groan, falling back onto her sofa and snuggling up to a throw pillow. "He didn’t talk to . He talked to you. Who does that?"
"Maybe there’s a reason," Penelope insists, sitting on the floor beside . "I’m telling you. Sothing’s hinky with McSexy. I think he’s trying to pretend there’s distance between you two."
I throw the pillow over my face with a dramatic sigh. "Pippa, you watch too many soap operas."
"And you’re just being willfully blind to his body language."
A snort escapes before I can stop it. "Oh, please. Treating like a criminal in the interrogation room is sohow romantic now?"
"He couldn’t keep his eyes off you," Penelope insists, her voice taking on that stubborn edge I know all too well.
I lift the pillow just enough to fix her with a withering stare. "Of course he couldn’t. He thinks I’m a criminal. It’s literally his job to keep an eye on suspects."
The words taste bitter on my tongue. Suspect. That’s what I am now, isn’t it? A murder suspect. The thought sends a chill down my spine, and I let the pillow fall back over my eyes, blocking out the world for just a mont longer.
"You’re missing the point," Penelope huffs. I can picture her crossing her arms, that little furrow between her brows deepening. "It wasn’t just professional interest. There was sothing... more."
I bite back another sigh. Penelope ans well, I know she does. But her romantic notions are the last thing I need right now. "Pippa, please. Can we not do this? Logan made his feelings perfectly clear when he rejected . End of story."
"But—"
"No buts," I cut her off, finally sitting up to face her properly. "Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Really, I do. But Logan Everett is the least of my problems right now. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m being investigated for murder."
The word hangs heavy in the air between us, a stark reminder of the ss I’m in. Scott’s lifeless eyes flash through my mind, and I suppress a shudder.
Penelope’s expression softens, guilt flickering across her features. "I know. I know! I just... I don’t know. I just want him to be on your side. That’s all. You need soone over there who isn’t going to do their best to throw you in jail."
"There’s always the chance they find the real culprit, you know." But the mory of how they look at makes my stomach sink.
It just doesn’t feel like it’s going to be that easy. Especially since he was dead in my bed. Why mine? Why couldn’t he have gotten himself murdered literally anywhere else?
"Would be nice to be so rich heiress about now. So family influence. Protective dad can send a big-na lawyer to keep them on their toes and make sure they’re looking for the culprit."
Penelope snorts. "That only works when your rich parents give a shit about you. Mine would probably let go to jail and consider it a blessing."
"Mmm."
As prevalent as magic is in the world, there are still plenty of humans who don’t accept it. Her parents are like that. Hoity-toity humans who do their best to pretend supernaturals don’t exist. Even when their own daughter turns out to be a witch.
There’s a reason our last nas are so similar. A reason we’re both best friends, despite wildly differing personalities.
"It’s going to co up, you know." Penelope’s tone changes to concern, and I turn my head.
"What is?"
"You know. Your family."
I snort. "If they can find any information, it’ll be the only good thing out of all this."
"You know that’s not what I an."
Sighing, I flop to my stomach, burying my face in my arms. "I know."
* * *
A slow-paced life of a murder suspect—sorry, witness—doesn’t sh with my personality.
If it wasn’t the weekend, I’d take my ass to work in a heartbeat, just to give myself sothing to do. My investigation work is done; it’s all in the hands of the SED. I have nothing left, except Penelope’s company.
And another strange delivery at the door.
"Apple fritters." Penelope wrinkles her nose at the nondescript white paper bag. "Really? Of all things?"
"I love apple fritters." Taking the bag from Penelope, I toss it into her sink like it’s on fire. "But not mysteriously delivered ones. Do you think I should call the police? Maybe it’s a stalker."
"A stalker who sends you clothes and apple fritters?" she asks dubiously. "Wouldn’t they just laugh? Is there a note this ti?"
"I don’t know. Don’t touch it. I’m still thinking about calling the police, and I want fingerprints."
Penelope frowns. "Maybe it’s the killer."
"Exactly."
She shudders. "Okay. Now it’s getting creepy. Don’t eat those. They might be poisoned."
Rubbing my arms to rid the goosebumps pimpling my skin, I ask, "Are there caras anywhere? Maybe we can check the security tapes."
"No. The landlord put in caras, but none of them work. He’s faking out criminals. We found out when one of the old ladies downstairs had her apartnt broken into. Turns out it was her son, but she had no video evidence."
"Her son?" Despite the situation, I can’t help but be intrigued.
"Nothing juicy. Just a druggie who wanted to sell off so valuables for money."
"Oh." Well, that’s la. "Surprised he didn’t fix the caras after that."
"Look. This apartnt looks amazing, and it’s in an okay location, but I’m paying so seriously discounted rent here. I’m pretty sure my landlord’s a secret pimp or sothing. Is there such a thing as a high-class slumlord? Because that’s definitely him."
"Hmm."
The apple fritters taunt with their delicious aroma, and I sigh. "I think we need to call the SED in. They can take a look."
"No. I’ll do you one better. I have his business card, rember?" Penelope dives into her purse. "Let call him."
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