I was nodding before he’d even finished. And I was crying, although I didn’t know why. Wiping my cheeks, I said, “I’ll help you. We’ll help each other.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  I thought I was done, but fresh tears spilled down my cheeks. I was smiling so hard my face hurt, and the most I could manage was a whisper: “You wrote it down.”

  “Someone much smarter than me told me it might help,” Bobby said. “And he was right. But I didn’t write down all of it.”

  He folded the sheets of paper again and returned them to his pocket. And then he got to his knees. His hands came to rest on my legs, and he looked up at me, and his hands were trembling, and I could hear his breath high in his chest, and a long way off, the ocean was a low, slow song.

  “I love you,” he said, and his hands tightened around my legs like he was holding on. And then, more slowly, “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I said, but it came out small and tangled because of the knot in my throat. I started to stand, and I got tangled in the blanket, and then Bobby had to jump to his feet to keep me from falling on him.

  And then we were standing again, his hands on my arms, his grip strong and steady.

  “I love you,” he said again, and he kissed me.

  The warmth of his lips. The taste of his mouth. His hand finding the back of my neck.

  Sometime later, I was blinking at him through my glasses, trying to decide if I still had legs. And Bobby had that beautifully goofy smile stretched across his face. And then it changed to something else—an expression I hadn’t seen on his face before. His hand slid up my chest, and he caught the tab of the hoodie’s zipper, and the smile on his face was like a fire about to catch.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

  He was looking at me, and that look was new too.

  “You’re the detective,” he said, and I heard the echo, when he had said those words before and meant something else entirely. The zipper stuttered down an inch. “Figure it out.”

  By the Book

  Keep reading for a sneak preview of By the Book, the next book in The Last Picks.

  Chapter 1

  My phone buzzed with an incoming call—the third one that day.

  And, for the third time that day, I hung up on my parents.

  It’s not technically hanging up, not without a receiver you can slam into a cradle; I know that. But it sounds more dramatic than I declined the call or I sent them to voicemail.

  Seconds trickled past, and my phone stayed quiet. I let my eyes drift back to the laptop screen.

  I was sitting in the den at Hemlock House, which I had turned into my office/writing room/occasional napatorium. By a rare bit of luck, I had the late afternoon all to myself. And I was trying to balance my checkbook.

  I mean, I hadn’t written a check in at least a year, so there weren’t a lot of transactions to reconcile. And I was probably missing some obvious piece of information, but I wasn’t even sure why people balanced their checkbooks in an age when you had instant, online access to all your account records (including your current balance). But—based on the little I knew about finances—balancing a checkbook seemed to be one way to find money. Or at least that’s what it looked like in TV shows and movies. People would sit at a table with a gingham tablecloth, and they’d have a pen in one hand, a calculator near their elbow, maybe a cup of coffee. They’d go down each line of the register and add numbers and subtract numbers. And voilà—money!

  This was part of being the new, responsible, independent Dash, who was a fully functioning adult and who didn’t need anyone to take care of him.

  Also, I really, really needed money.

  I’d lived in Hastings Rock for over a year now. It had been—even with all the murder and mayhem—the best year of my life. I owned a Class V haunted mansion (okay, that was my own designation, but honestly, Hemlock House was amazing). I had wonderful friends, not counting the time Keme had tried to give me a homemade tattoo with a ballpoint pen. I had met someone I loved more than I’d ever thought possible, and somehow—against all odds—Bobby seemed to love me back. I was even writing again. Well, again wasn’t the most accurate word. I was writing consistently for the first time in my life.

  But one of the things they don’t tell you about owning a Class V haunted mansion is that they’re expensive—expensive to heat, expensive to maintain, and particularly expensive when ordinary household maintenance (say, a leaky roof) gets complicated by factors like, oh, historic preservation.

  It wasn’t only Hemlock House, though. I hadn’t worked—unless you count writing, which nobody considers a real job—since I’d left Providence. I’d blown through my meager savings because, in addition to this money pit, I had other expenses. Like food. I was crazy about food. I wanted to eat it every day. And occasionally getting a haircut so Bobby didn’t decide he’d accidentally gotten into a relationship with an unkempt mountain man (is that rude? Should I have said a grizzled old prospector?). Plus, a few months before, a very dangerous man had run me off the road. I’d survived with nothing more than some bad scrapes, but the Jeep had been totaled—and I didn’t have money to replace it. On top of those concerns, there were other expenses in daily life—like occasionally going out for dinner and drinks with my friends. Or doing something nice for my oh-so-patient, oh-so-understanding, oh-so-handsome boyfriend.

  Based on the current balance of my bank account, the only nice thing I was going to be able to do for Bobby in the near future would be buy him a ring pop.

  Not that I was thinking about rings. It was too early.

  I mean, not that I hadn’t at least considered the possibility.

  Like, there was this one ring I’d found. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a gold band—but I knew from the picture that it would look AMAZING (cue Millie) on Bobby because on top of everything else, he had nice hands, and sometimes he wore a gold chain so I knew gold looked good on him, and of course he’d want something simple and understated and traditionally masculine and—

  A door opened and closed, and familiar steps moved toward the den as Bobby called out, “Dash?”

  He appeared in the doorway a moment later. He was wearing his running shoes, running shorts, and a tank top that was dark with sweat. His golden-olive skin was a little darker than usual, his shoulders and nose sun-kissed from his time outside. (August on the Oregon Coast is probably the only time anyone around here ever comes close to sun-kissed.) A few damp strands of hair had fallen out of their perfect part and clung to his forehead. My brain immediately decided to roll over and play dead.

  “Oh,” he said. “You’re writing. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m not writing.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Uh, actually, I am.”

  This was apparently grounds for further investigation by Deputy Bobby. He grabbed the door jamb with one hand and, with the other, began to stretch his quad by pulling one leg up and back.

  It was, to say the least, distracting.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Mmmm.”

  “Dash?”

  “Hm?”

  “You’re writing? During your writing time?” Bobby switched legs and hammered home with “Like we talked about?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What are you writing today?”

  I blame my brain, which was still playing dead, because I take zero responsibility for what came out of my mouth: “A sex scene.”

  Bobby’s eyebrows went up.

  “Uh,” I said.

  He changed stretches. He started pulling one knee up toward his chest.

  “Not—I mean, it’s not really a sex scene.”

  Bobby switched knees.

  “It’s more, um, romantic. Tasteful. That’s the key word. Tasteful. It’s all very tasteful. Plus they’re wearing clothes.”

  He seemed to consider this as he put both feet on the floor again. And then, eyebrows arching once more, he pulled the tank up to mop his face—in the process, exposing his tightly defined abs.

  I mean, he was my boyfriend. I was legally obligated to look.

  I was looking (and admiring) when my phone buzzed.

  I jumped. I said some words that would never have made it into a romantic, tasteful, fully clothed sex scene (whatever that was). My phone buzzed again. I tried to grab it, but apparently all my blood had apparently gone, um, elsewhere, and my hands weren’t working, and my phone was still buzzing.

  Finally, I got hold of it and dismissed the call.

  “Was that your parents?” Bobby asked.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “They’ve been calling all week.”

  It was a question, even if he was too polite to frame it as one. And unfortunately, after four calls in one day, I was ready to let loose—which was why my response came pouring out.

  “Yeah, they’ve been calling all week because they’re trying to make a power play, and they’re not happy that I won’t go along with it like I usually do.”

  “What—”

  “They just won’t—” I said over him.

  And right then, my phone began to vibrate.

  “—stop calling.”

  Bobby came across the room as I dismissed the call. “What do you mean, a power play?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “But you’re upset.”

  “I appreciate the concern, but Bobby, I promise, this is a blip. I’ve got everything under control—”

  My phone buzzed again.

  At the same time, the front door crashed open. Millie’s voice rang out through the house. “DASH, KASSANDRA AND ANGELINE ARE HOGGING THE BATHROOM, SO I’M GOING TO GET READY HERE.” Pause. “DID YOU KNOW THE CHIMNEY LOOKS REALLY SLANTY?”

  “What about the chimney?” Bobby asked. “Which chimney?”

  “I have no idea,” I said as I wriggled past him to make my escape.

  “This conversation isn’t over, Dash.”

  By the time I got to the hall, Millie was already halfway to the stairs. Keme was hurrying after her, carrying a toiletry bag, a hair dryer, and several cans, tins, and bottles of various hair products. He glared at us—daring us to make a comment—and then gestured with his chin to the far side of the house before trotting upstairs after Millie.

  “Okay,” Bobby said, “we definitely need to get that checked out.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Trust me, Bobby, I’ve got everything under control—”

  The lights flickered. And then the power went out.

  Bobby didn’t say anything. He just breathed out slowly.

  “It’s probably Millie’s hair dryer,” I said, but my voice wasn’t at a hundred percent.

  From upstairs came: “DASH, THE POWER’S OUT AND I DIDN’T EVEN USE MY HAIR DRYER.”

  In the gloom, Bobby’s breathing sounded very loud.

  “Uh, that’s strange,” I said in what I hoped was my most convincingly baffled voice.

  “Dash,” Bobby said.

  I tried not to say anything, but he waited me out. “Yeah?”

  “Why is the power off?”

  “I don’t know?” But it sounded way too much like a question.

  The wind wrapped itself around the house, shaking the old shutters.

  Finally, in a surprisingly even voice, Bobby asked, “Don’t you have an event here tonight?”

  I did. In fact, I was hosting an event that most of the town would be attending. Hey, renting out Hemlock House as a venue hadn’t gone well the first time—but maybe tonight would be better?

  Besides, I was desperate.

  All I said, though, was “Yup.”

  More silence.

  “Okay,” Bobby said. “I’ll—”

  “No, Bobby, please. You don’t have to do anything. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. I’ve got everything under—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “—control.”

  That was when the front door opened again, and my parents stepped inside.

  Acknowledgements

  My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):

  Jolanta Benal, for helping me with my blonds, for correcting lie/lay (and sparing me the chart!), and for spotting so many other errors in punctuation, continuity, and more.

  Savannah Cordle, for the most amazing live-commentary-read-through, for her excellent questions about what Bobby has told whom, and for reminding me about Dash’s phone.

  Meg DesCamp, for her expert corrections to the text, for reminding me it was a bombing (not a shooting), and for her help with the bracelet (I really did try to listen!).

  Winston Eisiminger, for asking about Candy’s sedan, for his kind words about Dash’s character development, and for making time to help me with this book when he was incredibly busy.

  Austin Gwin, for his question about Dash and Hugo’s shared doc, his help with the airbags, and for his feedback on Dash and Bobby’s relative responsibility for their current situation.

  Marie Lenglet, for her meticulous attention to the text, for fixing so many continuity errors, and for her generous encouragement and enthusiasm for this book.

  Brett McMillan, for his expertise (rushes and sedge, metallic smells), for making me laugh (Dashiell Damsell Dane, “too many Ds”), and for his combination threat-slash-plea final comment about Dash and Bobby’s future.

  Cheryl Oakley, for helping me clean up the manuscript, for her clarifying questions and suggestions, and for asking if Jane divorced Richard.

  Meredith Otto, for spotting errors that slipped past everyone else, for her kind words about the cozy-ness of this book, and for her excitement about the next one.

  Pepe, for his suggestion about Crocs, for the absolutely *perfect* healed-by-waffles moment, and for his questions about the logistics of the slough.

  Nichole Reeder, for her kindness about the swoon-worthy moments, for that vivid detail about the airbags, and for all her help and enthusiasm for this book.

  Tray Stephenson, for his help with word choice (definitely not ‘opening’), for his help proofing the text, and for his willingness to beta read this book after so many others.

  Mark Wallace, for spotting my missing words, for his feedback on the Agatha Christie paragraphs, and for sharing his reader brain (and his teacher brain!).

  Wendy Wickett, for her excellent editorial eye (hyphens!), for her patience with my lower-case choices, and for her kind attaboy with regard to the ending.

  And special thanks to Alicia, Crystal, Greg, and Raye for their feedback on the ARC.

  About the Author

  For advanced access, exclusive content, limited-time promotions, and insider information, please sign up for my mailing list at www.gregoryashe.com.

 

 

  Gregory Ashe, Again with Feeling

 

 

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