“Yeah, of course. Are you sure?”
“I heard footsteps upstairs.”
“Then get the fuck out of the house. This isn’t a horror movie. Do not investigate.”
“Right. Going. Right now.”
Joey started backing up toward the door, her heart racing. The footsteps continued across the floor above her head. They were fast and purposeful footsteps, not at all tentative but also not threatening. They were heavy, too, like whoever was walking wore either work boots or cowboy boots. She hadn’t heard that sound in a long time. Even the VPs at her Oahu Air office often came to work in sandals or flip-flops—one of the perks of working one hundred yards or so from the ocean.
“Jo? You there?” Kira whispered again.
“I’m here. Hello?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“Not you. I was talking to whoever’s up there. I think he’s working here.”
“Hey there,” came a voice from the top of the stairs. A male voice. A deep yet friendly voice. “Joey Silvia?”
“That’s me. And you are?”
“It’s Chris. I’m almost done up here with the ceiling fan,” the man called down to her.
“Has he murdered you yet?” Kira asked.
“Not yet. He says his name is Chris, and he’s doing something with the ceiling fan.”
“Is he hot?”
“Am I supposed to run screaming from him or have sex with him?” Joey whispered.
“Depends on if he’s hot or not. Go look.”
“You just told me to leave,” Joey half whispered, half yelled.
“You can leave, but find out if he’s hot first.”
“Okay... I’m going up. If my phone dies and/or you hear the sound of me screaming, hang up and call the cops.”
“What if he’s not murdering you, but you’re screaming because it’s such good sex? Do I still call the cops?”
“I’m not a screamer.”
“If he’s the right guy you will be.”
“I’m going to go up and see what he’s doing.” She glanced out the kitchen window and saw a large green Ford pickup parked behind the house with the words Lost Lake Painting and Contracting on the side in black-and-gold letters. Okay, not an ax murderer, then. Just the guy she should probably thank for doing such a good job on the house.
“I’ll stay on the line,” Kira said. “If you think he’s going to murder you, say, um, ‘I’m on the phone with my best friend, Kira. She’s a cop. And she’s sleeping with a cop. No, two cops. Cop threesome.’”
“I’m just supposed to work that into a casual conversation with a possible murderer?”
“And if he’s sexy and you want to bang him, just say, ‘Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?’”
“It’s the Pacific Northwest. In October. It’s forty-eight degrees out and raining.”
“Just say it!”
“You are the worst friend ever.”