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She doesn’t say anything else, but she rests her head back on my shoulder as we ride through the mountains. She’s still the daughter of the people who got Walker killed, and I’ll always be connected to the family who made her parents flee the country, but when she rests her head on me like that, all that baggage doesn’t feel so heavy.
33Sabrina
There’s something to be said for lurking in plain sight. All the famous serial killers did it. Bundy lurked in parking lots. Dahmer liked malls. But rarely would they drag their house guests to a harvestpalooza, aka a festival complete with fairy lights glowing over pumpkin-spiced everything, which is why I’m starting to wonder if Bobbi and Arch are just your average neighbors.
But—but.
The dead body.
“Welcome to the most important event of the fall season,” Bobbi announces, pointing her spiced churro at a wooden sign that reads Squirt Guns: 5 Tickets. “Everyone put down the churros, it’s time for the cider squirt-off.”
Lawton dips his chin, his mouth brushing my ear. “We need to lose them and find the Daughters and Co. booth. Do you see how many local artisans are here? It’s gonna take all night.”
“I know. I wouldn’t have mentioned this to her if I’d known they were selling candles here,” I murmur, and then raise my voice. “Hey, Bobbi, don’t you have to get back to your booth soon?”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of time. Those candles basically sell themselves, and I just left a little Venmo sign that reads ‘candles fifteen dollars,’ ” she says, turning back to the cider shoot-off.
“Dammit,” Lawton mutters, buttoning up his flannel in the chilly night.
I watch his fingers work the buttons. He could probably make me come in ten seconds flat with those long fingers.
“You look like you’re thinking dirty thoughts about me, Wife,” Lawton drawls.
I pull my gaze up to find mischief glittering in his eyes, so I focus on the town square instead. We have a job to do, and here I am, fantasizing about a man’s fingers.
Benson has transformed the town square into a maze of hay bales, rickety carnival rides, and booths full of hand-crafted items from local artisans.
It reminds me of the Halloween Nights Jubilee my parents used to take me to every year because, Normal families carve pumpkins, Sabrina, they don’t throw knives at them! Like tonight, we’d huddle together while sipping cider and act like my parents hadn’t spent the weekend teaching me how to forge a death certificate. It’s one of my glitteriest memories, pretending to be a regular family for one night.
“Okay,” Arch says. “Grab a gun.”
“I don’t really do, uh, squirt-offs,” I say, trying not to grimace at the word. It’s right up there with moist.
Lawton slips a flannel-clad arm around my shoulder. “I beg to differ. My wife’s a natural.”
I jab him with my elbow, but he pulls me closer against his chest. His scent, his warmth, his everything, I have to remind myself he’s acting.
Arch takes a huge bite of Bobbi’s churro. “Not a bad problem to have,” he mumbles around a mouthful.
They all laugh, and it feels like we’re just four friends enjoying the fall festivities. I wish it could be real, but instead, I’m quadruple-checking that my pocket pistol is still in my purse and overanalyzing the way Arch pulls Bobbi against his chest, wondering if he’s strong enough to strangle her to death. Lawton thinks he’s hiding something. We talked about it ad nauseam last night until the stars were bright in the sky.
“Not to brag,” Arch says, strolling backward between booths. “But you’re looking at last year’s reigning champions, so you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“You two wait here by the pumpkin patch,” Bobbi says, brushing the blond curls back from her face. “We’ll grab the guns. It’s easy. Just shoot at the apple target until it rises to the top and rings the bell. Be right back.”
She and Arch weave through hay bales, disappearing into the crowd of scarecrows and cowboy hats.
Lawton loops his arms around my shoulders, pressing his chest against my back. He’s been doing such a great job playing the fake husband with the extra forehead kisses that I keep leaning into him on instinct, even while I scan the carnival booths for threats. Except, the only threat I can find is the brunette in white cowboy boots eyeing up Lawton’s plaid flannel like it’s a vintage Armani tuxedo. One more sideways glance, and I’ll be forced to tell her he snoozes all ten of the alarms he sets, but Lawton doesn’t seem to notice her.
He squeezes me tighter. “You find the booth yet?”
“No. We need a better vantage point. You’re watching the western perimeter, right?”
“I’m not letting anything west of the Paint N’ Sip station out of my sight.”
“Good.”
He nuzzles my neck, rough stubble scraping against me, and presses his lips to the skin just below my ear. Heat simmers low in my core, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning. This is fake. All of it. Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake husband. Fake touches.
