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His expression clears. “You’re right, thatisembarrassing.”
I pretend to sniff. “Like I said.”
He clears his throat and tries again. “So, what doyoulisten to, podcast-wise?”
“Do you know any?”
He shakes his head. “Not really, no.”
I smile big and scroll for the most recent episode of my and Mab’s favorite. “Excellent.”
To his credit, Case makes it about two and a half minutes before he shoves open a stall door and comes to stand in the middle of the aisle, his hands on his trim hips.
I press my lips together. “Can I help you?”
“What the hell is this?”
“Oh, right. I thought you knew. This is called apodcast.”
“About serial killers.”
I lift a shoulder. “Mab likes it.”
His eyebrow quirks in amusement. “Mab is into some dark shit.”
I fight a smile.
“You’re really gonna stand there, holding a spiky metal weapon in your hands, acting like I’m not listening to a recording of an actual autopsy report?”
I open my eyes wide, as innocent as I can manage. “The murderer is still at large, Case. We might be able to help find him before it’s too late.”
“‘We’ as in…?” He circles his hands between us.
I’d die before admitting this out loud, but his exasperation isadorable. His eyes are puffy with exhaustion, he’s got this cowlick sticking straight up in the back, and I have to imagine this is exactly what he looked like as a toddler after naptime. “Obviously, you and I. Mab is a horse. She can’t understand the autopsy; she enjoys the cadence of the narrator’s voice. Finds it soothing.”
“Winnie Sutton listens to true crime podcasts.”
“Clearly.”
“What else?”
“Do I listen to?”
He nods, leaning on his fork.
“A little of this and a little of that.” Something has me feeling honest. “Some nineties country if the mood strikes.”
His expression brightens like he’s been given a gift. “I thought that was Mab’s vice.”
“I already said it was embarrassing, Case. We don’t need to harp on it.”
He grins, and I notice how nice his teeth are. White and straight and even. I catch myself running my tongue along the gap in my own front teeth.
“So you like the classics,” he offers, easily. “If it’s any consolation, I went through a phase in middle school when I thought I wanted to be a pirate like Kenny Chesney when I grew up. Walker was merciless about it.”
I snicker. “I love that you thought Kenny Chesney was a real pirate.”
“I had this whole plan worked out that after we graduated high school, Walker and I would travel to the Keys and learn how to sail.”
