“That was his first mistake,” Jude said dryly.
I glanced at Mateo. The Canceled Killer had shorted out all my patience. Plus, I remembered Russo saying Spidey needed to go. How could I be sure he wasn’t the one taunting me with messages from the kitchen?
“Uh, Mateo? Could I… talk to you a minute?” I asked him.
Jude and Olivia exchanged a glance.
Mateo slipped off the stool he was sitting on, bouncing like a puppy dog. With that adorable energy? No, he couldn’t be the Canceled Killer.
Still…
He followed me gamely back out the screen door and into the Zen garden. I saw a Briton Landscaping truck parked out on the street, half in front of our house and half in front of Tammy’s, where they’d be working. Men in Briton Landscaping T-shirts began unloading lawn equipment, probably one of the season’s few remaining trims before freezing temperatures set in.
I walked across the footbridge to the other side of the koi pond, where Diamond Dave hoisted his head out of the water, opening and closing his large mouth, and splashed the pebble path with a stream of pond water. Next door, someone powered up a riding lawnmower. Loudly.
“Mateo…” I began.
“What?” he called, cupping his hand to his ear.
The mower made talking difficult. I whipped open the door of my Airstream and pulled Mateo inside behind me.
I was barely two steps in when he took a swing at me.
Eight
Instead of fearing the Canceled Killer, people online wanted to turn him into a hero. His victims, many said, got what they deserved.
—Crime Hivepodcast
I ducked, of course.
“Mateo!” I cried.
But he was already swinging again, hard to do in this tight space, but he managed it. I blocked his punch.
He was using top-tier stuntman fighting on me. He tried a very impressive front kick, clearly designed for tight spaces (he did, I think, mention something about filming a recent bus fight scene), sending me hopping back. I opened the fridge door to block another one of his kicks.
Now I was nearly against my unmade bed. He lunged forward, and I stepped to one side, using his body weight to send him, face-first, into my tangled sheets.
“Stay down,” I warned him.
He rolled over and slow clapped me from my bed.
“You’ve been practicing,” I noted.
We sparred all the time. I taught him better fight moves for the movies, and he taught me how to stunt drive. Seemed a fair trade. Plus, really, there’s no better foreplay than punching someone.
“Thank you for noticing,” he said. “It took you five whole seconds longer to flatten me.” He flashed me a proud smile, like a kid who’d just caught his first fish.
He propped himself up on his elbows. “Feel like a different kind of sparring?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and patted the rumpled sheets next to him.
“Not now.” I shook my head.
“Okay.” Mateo didn’t even seem disappointed. He rarely did. He just shrugged, gamely changing gears. He sat on my unmade bed, bouncing on the nonexistent springs. He looked a lot younger in the daylight of Lake Sanguis than in his dark Uptown apartment.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him as I rhythmically tapped my fingers against my own hip bone.
He shrugged. “I thought it would be fun to surprise you, mi cielo. Romantic,” he added lamely. He flashed me an awkward smile.
