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“Haven’t I? I guess with all that’s been going on, I just forgot.”
What are the odds that Mike Armandi would ask me out at the same exact moment I needed it? This is like some weird and wonderful Kismet. Like the universe just reached out to me with this little gift.
Do I want to go to brunch with Mike Armandi?
Why not?
He’s pleasant enough. And if I go on this one date, I can truthfully say I’ve gone out with him and I won’t be lying anymore. Besides, I don’t want to turn him down and have the universe think I’m ungrateful.
I text him back. Sounds good. Where and when?
The Harbor House. Pick you at 11?
It’s a date!
I put my phone down. “We’re going out to brunch tomorrow. The Harbor House,” I add casually.
No one says anything, and thankfully, a couple of minutes later, the conversation goes back to St. Perpetua’s leaky roof. But every once in a while, I catch Will looking at me with a strange expression on his face.
Chapter Ten
After dinner, Brittany helps mom and me clear the table while the men do the dishes. Since tomorrow is Sunday which is Sebastian’s big day of the week he leaves immediately afterward to practice his homily. Poor guy. He’s already sweating having to ask the congregation to cough up the money for the church roof.
Brittany leaves soon after, and Will and I play cards with my parents for an hour or so before we call it a night.
Paco and I are out the door and almost to my car when Will catches up to me. “I’m following you home.”
“No need to, I’m—”
“I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you.”
“Oh…all right.”
Whatever. Will can follow me if he wants to. I’m not about to argue with him knowing that El Tigre is out there somewhere. I know he doesn’t want to hurt me, but if Agent Billings is right, then El Tigre is planning to make a repeat visit to The Bistro to leave his trademark clue. I’m really not looking forward to that.
It didn’t seem like such a big deal during the daytime, but it’s after ten and pitch black outside. Because The Bistro back parking lot faces the gulf, we can’t keep artificial lights on otherwise it confuses the baby sea turtles. The motion detector light above the kitchen door doesn’t seem like enough protection anymore.
So, yeah, I’m glad Will followed me.
I unlock the kitchen door and turn on the lights. “Want to—”
“Yep,” he says brushing his way past me. “Did you record last night’s episode of America’s Most Vicious Criminals?”
“Naturally.”
Even though we both had double helpings of chicken cacciatore, we still stuff ourselves with popcorn while we watch the recording. The episode, featuring a double homicide that took place on board a yacht, is especially gruesome.
“Why do people use knives?” I say. “I mean, all that stabbing and blood. Yuck.”
“You prefer your murder less messy?” Will teases.
I think about Ken Cameron and Mark Rinaldi and how little blood there actually was. One small bullet hole between the eyes and bam! I shudder.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, still thinking about what I’ve seen this week. El Tigre might be a ruthless killer, but I don’t think his victims suffered before they died. So, there’s that at least.
We watch all the way to the previews at the end. I get up and stretch, expecting Will to take off, but instead, he goes to my linen closet and pulls out a blanket and a pillow.
