“He knows where it is,” Tate answered for his son and then looked at the boy. “Get me a water while you’re in there, Bub.”

Jonas nodded and raced to the house, his arm still curved around the basketball.

I knew why Tate sent Jonas on his errand when he put the glass on the table beside me and leaned into me, a hand to either arm of my chair. He was sweaty, his hair around his neck and ears was wet and curling and there were more wet bits plastered to his forehead, as his t-shirt was mostly plastered to his chest.

Another kind of yummy.

“How you doin’?” he asked softly.

I took in a breath and on the exhale shared, “How I’m doing is, I keep thinking about it and she told me all of it but I still think we didn’t get much.”

“We got more than we had,” Tate replied.

“That’s true but it’s not enough,” I said. “He was wearing a ski mask.”

“Bad luck,” Tate muttered. “He came prepared.”

“She was too scared to notice the color of his eyes and he didn’t barely speak,” I reminded Tate of what he already knew since he’d been listening in with the Feds.

“She’s talkin’ now and they’ll get someone in to work with her, get more. But now we know he’s built, strong, not a wimp, and we know he’s white. We also know it wasn’t opportunity. He’d seen her before.”

“How do we know that?” I asked and, unfortunately, Tate moved away but pulled another chair close to mine and sat down.

“He came prepared,” Tate repeated as he leaned down, wrapped an arm around the backs of my knees and then lifted his legs, feet to the railing, pulling mine up, twisting me in my chair and throwing my legs over his.

“The ski mask,” I guessed.

“Yeah, it’s July,” Tate stated. “He was also wearin’ gloves. Left no prints on her bike, left nothin’.”

“But it’s him, the one who killed Tonia,” I stated.

“It’s the same kind of knife so that’s a good assumption.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Shambles was with her before,” Tate told me. “Tambo talked to him. She’d go out and draw down the sun on her own but not at that spot. At that spot, Shambles was always with her.”

“So this time, alone…”

“He’d seen them together, she was alone this time, he took his shot.”

“So, planned but not planned, exactly.”

“Not planned exactly but planned, yeah.”

I looked to the trees.

“He lives up there Laurie,” Tate muttered and my eyes shot to him.

“What?” I breathed.

“Bet my f**kin’ life on it, he lives up there,” Tate reiterated. “He knows that spot. He knows those woods. Bet my f**kin’ life he lives up there. He hunts up there. That’s his space. It’s his.”

With what he said and the way he said it, I felt my blood run cold.

“Is Tambo going to check?” I asked.

“Runnin’ everyone now.”

“How stupid would that be, that close to home, to –?”

“Pretty f**kin’ stupid,” Tate cut me off.

“But why?”

He shook his head, staring at the conifers at the front of his home, his mind somewhere else.

“It’s jacked,” he whispered. “Can’t get my head around it. Nothin’ fits but it all fits. Eight identical murders and now this, all the same MO, but all wrong.”

We heard the sliding glass door go at the same time I heard Jonas saying, “No, Buster, you stay inside.”

Quickly, I leaned close and whispered to Tate, “She said he said ‘sorry’.”

His arm slid around my shoulders and pulled me closer so my side dug into the arm of the chair but I didn’t care because the rest of me was resting against him.

“Yeah,” Tate whispered back.

“That’s creepy, Tate.” I was still whispering.

“It’s all creepy, Laurie.” He was also still whispering.

He was right about that.

Jonas made it to us and he handed Tate a bottled water. Then he dragged a chair close to his Dad and sat down with his own glass (not pink, one of Tate’s old ones) of grape Kool-Aid and a handful of cookies which he proceeded to start eating.

“You like grape Kool-Aid, Jonas?” I asked him.

“Cherry’s better,” he muttered, mouth full and then turned to face me and grinned a chocolate chip cookie crumble grin. “But it’ll do.”

“I could do cherry,” I stated and then finished on a mumble to myself, “Or I’ll buy another pitcher. They had green ones too.”

“Dad, Laurie’s fillin’ the house with girlie crap,” Jonas told on me while I was sitting right there.

Tate was staring at the trees and I watched him smile at them while he murmured, “Yeah.”

Clearly Tate didn’t mind me filling the house with “girlie crap”. I gave Jonas a “so there” look and Jonas rolled his eyes.

Then he asked, “We gonna eat hamburgers or what?”

“Soon’s Lauren makes ‘em,” Tate answered.

“I thought you were grilling them,” I said to Tate and he looked down at me.

“Yeah, I’m grillin’ ‘em, not makin’ ‘em.”

“So I have to do the icky, squishy part?” I demanded to know.

Tate smiled at me, “Yeah.”

Before I could protest, Jonas spoke.

“I’ll do the icky, squishy part,” he offered. “I like icky and squishy.”

“It’s all yours,” I muttered.

“Cool!” Jonas cried.

“After a shower, Bub,” Tate stated.

“Right,” Jonas replied, shoved the last cookie in his mouth, jumped up and ran to the house.

Tate looked back at the trees. I rested my head on his shoulder. We sat together silent for awhile before Tate broke the silence.

“He thinks you’re the shit, Ace.”

He meant Jonas.

“That’s good since I feel the same way,” I replied.

We were quiet again, then, for some reason, he asked softly, “You love me?”

My heart skipped and my body got tight.