She scrubbed herself clean but didn’t wash her hair. After she dried off, she put on her pajamas along with a baggy white hoodie. She brushed her out-of-control hair and tied it back in a scrunchy. She didn’t apply any makeup or perfume. She didn’t want to send Shane any of the wrong signals. They were work colleagues. He was protecting her from a murderous psychopath, not planning the fine art of seduction. She didn’t want any more apologies.

She slipped quietly down the stairs and found him watching the late evening news.

“Anything?” She knew he was looking to see if anyone had linked the dead nightwatchman to Evi1Geni-us yet. The longer they could hold off, the less worried EG would be that they were onto him, and the more likely he would be to relax and stop looking over his shoulder, which might give them time to catch up.

“Nothing.”

The news item changed and she immediately recognized footage from a school shooting.

“Turn it off.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended.

Shane flicked the off button and didn’t seem to notice her tone. But maybe she was kidding herself because he didn’t miss much.

She grabbed two beers from the fridge and offered him one. Their fingers connected and she pretended she didn’t feel the flare of electricity arc between them.

He turned to look at a pencil drawing she’d hung on the kitchen wall, indicated it with his beer bottle. “You drew this?”

It was of a tiny, solitary wren. Every feather was lovingly detailed. She nodded. She’d signed it with a faint single “Y” that was barely visible in the bottom right-hand corner.

“It’s fantastic. You ever think about selling anything?”

She shrugged, uncomfortable now with the subject. “It’s just a hobby.”

She sat on a bar stool that Lincoln Frazer had left behind and grabbed a slice of pizza and cupped her hand under it to stop it dripping onto her clothes.

“Ohmygod,” she chewed. “This is delicious.”

Shane nodded and devoured his own slice. They’d both been working flat-out since before dawn but he didn’t look tired.

She noticed someone had been working on an unfinished crossword she and Laura had started last weekend. “You finished the puzzle?” She pulled the newspaper towards her. “‘Pictures of Yosemite’ is ‘cels’? What the hell?”

“Yosemite Sam. The cartoon character.”

“I can’t believe you knew that.”

He shrugged. “We spend a lot of time hanging around or in transit. Nash always has a crossword going and sometimes we turn it into a contest.”

“Shocking,” she said dryly.

He stood there grinning in his green utility pants and tight black t-shirt and she swore her mouth started to water for something other than food.

Damn.