Page 50 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

I look around the waiting room. There’s no one else here.

Jessie sighs and types something into her computer. “Just, you know, make an appointment online like everyone else.”

Two can play this game.

I head out to the sidewalk, pull out my phone, and make an appointment for fifteen minutes from now. Busy, my ass. Once I get the confirmation, I shoot Jessie a cute look through the window just as Hannah texts me about hanging out. I leave her onread—it’s just not a good time for me to sound like I have my shit together, what with my current heart attack—and then I go back to my thread with Claudia.

Me:If you’re mad at me for doubting, I will make it up to you. But until then, could use a little help? Figure out who the mastermind is so I don’t get killed, etc??

I’ve just hit send when a voice startles me. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite crossing guard.”

If it’s possible to nearly jump out of your own body, that’s what I do. But it turns out the voice isn’t coming from a potential murderer.

It’s coming from the hottest, nerdiest government employee I have ever met. And sure, the alderman’s office is like two doors down, but also, this is a Sunday. What’s she doing here?

“Workaholic, much?” I joke, trying to pretend she didn’t just give me the jump scare of my life.

Tasha is wearing a short-sleeve button-down and, I’m sorry, abow tie? Somehow she just got ten times cuter, which honestly seems illegal. I, meanwhile, am still braless in my ancient Cubs tank, sporting a puffy face and bedhead.

She doesn’t seem to notice any of this though. Instead, she breaks into a huge grin and gives me a hug while I whisper to my deodorant,Hold the line.

Tasha, meanwhile, smells kinda sweet, kinda spicy, and totally delicious. This is all very bad timing because it’s making my heart race mid–heart attack.

“Don’t get too close,” I say, pulling away from her, and then accidentally blurting out the least sexy thing imaginable. “I might be contagious.”

“Oh,” she says, concern flashing across her face. “Flu? Covid?”

Too late to backtrack. No way out but through.

“No, uh,” I say. “Heart attack.”

She laughs.

“I’m serious!” I say, smiling despite myself. “My left arm hurts!”

“Can I?” she asks, pointing at my shoulder.

“Yeah—O-o-okay,” I stammer.

She starts gently massaging my shoulder, and it feels amazing. “I bet I can guess why.”

Maybe this is about to be sexy after all.

“You’ve been walking a big dog,” she says.

The laugh dies in my throat, and the wave of paranoia that started yesterday at the funeral crashes over me.

How would she know that?

Has she been watching me?

Seriously, whyisshe working on a Sunday?

“What?” I ask, glancing up and down the street. Was I followed?

“A dog,” she says cheerfully.

I step out of the massage. “Why would you say that?”