“Know it’s a hard ask, but don’t get cute, Mac. Bench or not, you could’ve gotten hurt. Especially since this means you lugged that heavy thing across the yard. Knock on my door. Hell, walk in. Just don’t do shit like that.”

Once again…

The concern.

The panic.

The relief.

And the steak.

All of it wrapped around me, warm and comforting and nice.

Just so nice.

“You wanna watch your show while we eat?” he asked.

After we’d finished eating pizza the night before, he’d stuck around to stream a couple of old episodes of House.

He was a shitty TV companion. He didn’t binge the way I did, so he had questions.

A lot of them.

But he also made a lot of jokes.

He made interesting commentary.

He made popcorn—and not the microwaved kind. He’d run home to get the kernels that cooked on the stove.

I could forgive talking through the episodes if good snacks were involved.

At my nod, he gave me a cool, badass one of his own. “I’ll be over in ten.”

As he returned to his place, I went inside to clear off my couch and wait for him.

The whole time—the whole night—his words echoed in my head.

‘Know it’s a hard ask, but don’t get cute, Mac.’

11. Serial Killers Prefer Poached Eggs

CHAPTER 11

SERIAL KILLERS PREFER POACHED EGGS

MAC

At the knock on the door, my heart clenched, and my stomach fluttered in a way that had little to do with Squish.

I’d thought our Friday dinner had been a one-time thing before he’d surprised me with steaks on Saturday. Eating delicious food and watching TV with him was a fun time.

A great time.

Probably one of the best I’d had in a while—dethroning the cookout.

I hadn’t been expecting him to show up again for another round of dinner and binge.

But I’d hoped.

I opened the door to see Ward in his usual ensemble of worn jeans, long-sleeved tee, leather cut, and biker boots. In his hand was a plastic bag that he handed to me.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Got some work to handle but wanted to drop off dinner.”

Like all our conversations, I didn’t ask about his work, and he didn’t volunteer any information. He did, however, always ask about my work—though never anything that was too invasive of my kids’ privacy. Just how my day was, what I did, how I felt.

It was very one-sided.

As was our dinner arrangement, which seemed to entail him ordering or bringing me meals.

Like the bag I held. “What is it?”

“Comfort food.”

I believed it because just the smell was warm and inviting and soothing.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome, neighbor.” He turned and jogged off my porch before adding, “Don’t watch our show without me.”