Reckoning and Ruin by Tina Whittle Page B

too.” He hesitated. “Are you still going to Savannah?”
    â€œYes. But only for one night. Just long enough to check in with a few people who know John, see if they can shed some light on his current absence. See how Hope’s story pans out.”
    Silence at Trey’s end. I thought of my latest mysterious delivery, but kept that development to myself. Nothing good could come from throwing such a thing in his lap, not now anyway.
    â€œBesides,” I continued, “we’re both on edge. Some time apart might be a good thing.”
    He made a noncommittal noise.
    â€œYou know I’m right.” I kept my voice nonchalant. “Hey, what did Gabriella want?”
    â€œGabriella?”
    â€œShe was in the parking lot when I left.”
    â€œShe was? Why?”
    I took advantage of the phone connection to concoct a bit of subterfuge. “She wanted to check on you. Didn’t she go up?”
    â€œNo.”
    I listened for any deception in that simple response. I heard nothing but puzzlement in his voice, however. And as much as I wanted to quiz him further, spill my guts about my encounter with his angry ex, I decided that particular conversation would keep, along with the rest of the things I wasn’t saying. He was calm again, collected. I needed him to stay that way until I could get back to town.
    He exhaled softly. “Call me tomorrow night?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThank you. And be careful. Please.”
    My heart warmed. “I will. You be careful too.”
    â€œI will. And Tai?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThat indiscretion on my desk? It wasn’t insignificant. Not at all.”
    I flushed at the memory. He’d stretched way out of his comfort zone that night, and he’d done it because I needed him, which was the part that had been out of my comfort zone.
    â€œIt wasn’t insignificant for me either,” I said.
    We exchanged good nights, and I felt better as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. One part of me was satisfied. But another part kept whispering in my ear. Forty-five minutes it took him to call me back.
    Forty-five freaking minutes.

Chapter Eighteen
    Rico didn’t even say good morning. He opened the door, saw me standing there with a dozen Krispy Kremes and two coffees, then turned his back and shuffled toward the kitchen table. I kicked the door closed behind me.
    â€œWhat? Not even a thank you?”
    He flopped himself down at the table, his ebony eyes bleary and bloodshot. “For what? Robbing me of an hour of sleep? You coulda called instead of just showing up.”
    â€œYou didn’t text me back last night.”
    â€œI was at a poetry slam. Didn’t get in until four.”
    â€œOh. Sorry.” I sat opposite him and shoved a coffee his way. “Don’t you have to be at work in a little while though? I mean, it’s not like you were going to sleep all day.”
    He grumbled something and stuck his nose in the coffee. His voice was thick with sleep, rough like steel wool, and his skin was lighter than I remembered, more au lait than café. We’d been best friends since middle school, bonding on the margins, and then he’d fled Savannah as soon as he graduated. And while my moving to Atlanta had put us closer in distance, we seemed to have gotten further apart in other ways.
    â€œSo you got my text?” I said.
    He nodded, pulled his bathrobe tighter around his beefy frame. “Still not sure what you’re wanting to know.”
    â€œTell me about the poem.”
    Rico picked up a doughnut and took a bite. “Your stalker knows the classics. That’s Robert Browning, from ‘My Last Duchess.’”
    â€œI got that much from Wikipedia. What does it mean ?”
    â€œIt’s a confessional monologue from a killer. A murder poem.”
    I pushed down that sinking feeling. “Oh crap.”
    â€œYou got that right. The line you quoted refers