Page 68 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

Baxter reacted to the instruction like I’d told him to perform a plié. “What?”

“You can’t stay here.” When he didn’t move, I gave him a gentle shove. “Pack.”

He crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a rucksack. “What am I packing?”

“Enough clothes for a few days. Toiletries. Phone charger. Anything you’d take if you were going away.”

“I’m a bit rusty on that,” he said dryly. “On account of having been dead for nineteen years.”

I raided the bathroom, grabbing what I judged essential, and returned to find him stuffing clothes into the bag. “It feels like running away,” he said. “Weren’t you the one who told me I needed to face up to things?”

“There’s a time for facing things head-on, and there’s a time for retreating, regrouping, and figuring out what the fuck is happening.”

“What makes you think we’ll be safe at your place?”

“I don’t,” I admitted. I wasn’t ready to tell him he wasn’t the only one who’d felt like they were being watched.

Baxter frowned. “Then where are we going?”

“A hotel?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. That makes sense. More people around. More…” His brow knitted when he couldn’t think of any other advantages.

“My credit card is maxed out,” I added sheepishly.

A faint smile. “I’ve got money. You can thank the PPB for not cutting me off entirely.”

Preparations to leave were swift after that. I called a cab while Baxter finished packing. I’d worry about retrieving my own things later. The priority was getting Baxter somewhere safe—somewhere he didn’t have to worry about someone trying to finish what they’d started nineteen years ago.

Neither of us left the building until the cab arrived. Even then, we both scanned the street nervously before climbing into the back seat. That wariness followed us for the entire journey, every car that appeared in the rear-view mirror briefly promoted to potential pursuer, until it turned off in another direction.

By the time we pulled up outside a Holiday Inn, we were as sure as anyone could be that no one had followed us. The receptionist didn’t bother to hide her surprise at someone booking a room when some of their guests were probably contemplating breakfast.

“I could’ve called Calisto,” Baxter said once we were inside the room. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Would he have picked up at this hour?”

“Probably. Or if he didn’t, Asher would have. He gets up at the crack of dawn to do Tai Chi like a lunatic.”

I laughed at the way he’d said it. “I don’t think wanting to stay fit makes someone a lunatic.”

Baxter dropped his bag onto the bed. “Even if they choose to do it at an ungodly hour?”

“Even then.”

“Even Calisto thinks it’s crazy. And he loves him.” The last words were faint, Baxter having wandered into the bathroom. The sound of running water started up a few seconds later. “Hey, Lake. Want to take a shower with me?”

Is the Pope Catholic? Do bears shit in the woods? Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?

Baxter popped his head around the doorframe. “A yes would suffice.”

I grinned, already shedding clothes as I headed for the bathroom. With everything else that had happened tonight, I’d somehow forgotten Baxter’s ability to read minds. As we squeezed into the shower cubicle, something occurred to me. “Did you get anything from him? From the man, I mean? Any thoughts?”

Baxter tipped his head back under the hot spray. “No.”

“Was the distance too far?”

“I didn’t try. I was only half awake and…” He shook his head, frustration clear.