My heart hammered in my chest. I told myself to look again.
I scanned the street, and that’s when Tammy’s minivan pulled away from the curb, revealing a white car ahead of hers. The Wagoneer? Maybe. I started jogging toward it.
Then, as I got close, I realized it wasn’t the same car at all. Not a Jeep Wagoneer.
“Hey, kid.” The low, gravelly voice was in my ear, and I sprang back from the car, adrenaline pulsing in my veins.
I whipped around to see Aaron Russo standing beside me, wearing his signature outfit: an expensively tailored blazer, crisp white shirt open at the collar, slim-fit pants, and suede loafers. He never wore socks, not even in winter. His sky-blue eyes fixed me with interest.
“Detective… Russo?” I blinked again, holding my chest as if my heart would fall out. What the hell was he doing here?
His nose was still slightly crooked, broken from the time he had to take down a murder suspect who elbowed him in the face, but it was the only flaw in his countenance, which was all hard angles: square jaw, cheekbones that could cut glass, and his only slightly flawed thin, Roman nose.
He looked less like a cop and more like the star of his own action movie. I was glad to see that he had his charisma set to broil. How did the man show off his bicepsthroughhis jacket? He was the reason they invented the athletic cut.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” he said, brow wrinkling with concern. “Everything okay?”
No. Everything was definitely not okay. Because I think I was having my first hot flash. At twenty-seven. Or maybe it was just standing so close to Russo, whose proximity made me want to go all gooey and giggly and start twisting a strand of hair around one finger. I told myself it was not at all because he flicked a quick but appreciative glance at my leggings.
“I… well… er…” Russo’s dominant pheromones might be interfering with my brain’s ability to speak full words. “I… uh… I’ve been getting some hateful texts. Trolls, I think.”
Russo held out his palm, and I dutifully put my phone in it. He scrolled through, frowning.
“Lemon emoji?” Russo sent me a dark look.
“Yeah,” I said, and swallowed, throat dry. “You think it’s bad?”
“I don’t think it’s good.” He frowned at the screen. “You didn’t tell anybody about the lemon at the crime scene, did you?”
I shook my head. “You told me not to.”
“Okay, then.” He glanced back down at my phone. He took a few screenshots and then AirDropped them to his phone before he handed mine back to me. “When did these start? All from the same number or different?”
“The texts? Today. The DMs? Those came yesterday from a social media account named CanceledKill, all one word.”
Russo nodded. “You should be careful. Especially when at the gym.” He nodded to my sweat-soaked sports bra, mostly on view since I’d neglected to zip up my hoodie. I told myself it was probably wishful thinking on my part that his gaze lingered just a beat longer at my neckline. There’s no way an elite specimen like Russo could be interested in me.
“Not gym,” I corrected. “Dojo.”
Russo raised both eyebrows, his blue eyes impressed as they met mine. “I see. Well, I’ll handle this,” he said, and instantly, I felt better about everything. Not that Oscar wasn’t helping, but Russo just seemed… so damn capable. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy his attention. Maybe being stalked had its perks.
“I’ll check into the account, and then have this number traced and make this guy sorry he ever reached out to you.” A muscle twitched in Russo’s jaw.
I bet he would, too. I felt a blush bloom on my cheeks.
“Don’t bother with the trace,” I managed. “I looked it up. It’s from an anonymous messaging site.”
Russo’s frowned deepened. “Damn coward,” he muttered.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I felt jittery, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I saw the Canceled Killer around every corner or because Russo just had that effect on me.
“Taking some time off,” he said, which I immediately knew was a lie. Russo never took vacations. He wasn’t here for a hayride at the pumpkin patch. Russo didn’t belong in a quaint resort town. He was all edge. His idea of politeness was reading you your Miranda rightsbeforehe shoved you over the hood of an unmarked police car.
“You don’t take time off,” I pointed out.
Russo shrugged. “Can’t I check up on an old partner?” He cocked his head to one side. He’d gotten a haircut recently, his dirty-blond hair short and tight, every strand in place. Even the slight hint of new gray at his temples made him look sexier somehow. I was man-crushing. Bad.
“Who?” I asked, wondering who else he might know in Lake Sanguis.
