Killer Love - Ella Goode Page 0,4
the serial killer husband who is enjoying his freedom. “Promises, promises,” she says.
“And I always deliver.”
Chapter Four
Angel
“Don’t get those. I’ll make them.” I take the premade cookies from my sister's hands, putting them back. She’s spending the night with me since Lucas is away on business. I hate when he has to leave on these trips but know that it’s a part of his job. My husband is one of the best coroners in the state and I know he is needed in some cases to put bad men away where they belong. I get it, so I try to hide my disappointment when he does have to leave. I remind myself that it’s for the good of the world. He is out serving justice. Putting bad people where they belong and giving solace to families that need it.
“You just want to make the cookies so you don’t have to knit.” Okay. That might be what I’m doing.
“Fresh cookies are better,” I try and justify.
“Look. It says here they made them today.” She points at the printed label on the plastic container. “They make them fresh right back there.” She nods toward the bakery section of the store.
“Mine are made with love.” Maybe now they’ll also have a little bit of spite because she called me out.
“Su-re,” she drawls, fighting a smile. I love to cook. Desserts are my favorite. It is one of two things that always puts me in a good mood. The other is too far away to use that mouth of his on me. The one that always leaves me with a smile on my face. Desserts and a loving husband. What more could a girl want?
“Don’t act like you don’t love my homemade treats.” I push our already overloaded cart toward the front of the store. I recall the last time we did a sleepover we said we’d order takeout because this always happens. This cart is way over-packed with things that we’re probably not going to eat tonight and shouldn’t get.
“This is true. If your cookies are extra good I’ll do most of the knitting for you. You could do the last few stitches so then you can say that you made it and it’s not really a lie.” I scrunch my nose at the idea. “Never mind. You can’t even tell a little white lie, can you?”
“I don’t know. Seems silly to lie about something you don’t need to.”
“Sometimes a lie is for the greater good.” She hits me with a hard stare, one that says she’s trying to teach me a lesson. Maybe. It’s not something I want to think about tonight. Tonight is supposed to be about sister time and catching up.
The plan is to veg out while binge watching mindless reruns of reality TV as I try to cook so that I don’t have to knit. I should probably give it a try. I didn’t want to tell Gina whenever I think about knitting that my mind drifts to making little baby socks or mittens.
“Did I tell you I love the color you painted your office?” She posted pictures of it just this morning.
“Hmm. Your voice goes up two octaves when you do try and lie. Maybe it’s best you stick to the truth.” Gina looks down at her shoes. “And what the hell is wrong with my paint? It’s white.” Everything in her office is white. From the walls, to the furniture, to the floor. I’d be scared to breathe in there because I could mess something up.
“Like in an insane asylum?”
“Hardy har har.” For some reason it doesn’t feel as though her office matches her personality.
“My office is a blank canvas. I go there to create things. I want everything to start from scratch.”
I ponder her words. That actually does kind of make sense. Gina really is an artist. She could create something out of nothing. Except for food. It’s her one downfall. She can’t even boil water without burning it. We all have to have a flaw of some sort. She can’t cook to save her life but she can eat like there is no tomorrow. Not that you could tell that from looking at her.
“You’re taking some of this food home with you.” We start unloading all of the groceries onto the checkout belt.
“Angel?” A chill runs up my spine at the sound of my name because I know who it is without having to look. I turn to see Chad standing there with a basket