Free The Dying Breath by Alane Ferguson Page A

watching.”
    “Mammaw, you need to go.” With a hand on each of her grandmother’s shoulders Cameryn pushed her mammaw toward the living room. “Turn on the TV or sew something.”
    “Offer him some food, Cammie. Men are always hungry,” her grandmother called over her shoulder.
    “Yeah. ’Bye.” Cameryn’s grandmother had just disappeared when she heard his footsteps. It annoyed her to realize how her body turned against her. Her heart skipped beats as he trod up their back steps, stomping twice to shake off the snow. This reaction to Justin’s presence was absurd. How many times had they shared the same space, working forensic cases side by side? Hadn’t they just gone to the autopsy together? But tonight seemed different somehow, probably because of her grandmother’s pointed conversation and the images that conversation had stirred up. Get a grip, she commanded as Justin’s tall, lanky form loomed dark behind the gauzy kitchen curtain. Three sharp raps announced his arrival.
    “Hey,” Cameryn said, opening the door.
    “Hi, Cammie. I thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing.”
    “I’m fine. Come on in. Sit.”
    Justin peeled off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, then straddled it as if it were a bar stool, while she sat in a chair next to him. He’d changed into different jeans and a navy cotton turtleneck that brought out the blue in his eyes. Thick lashes heightened the color—doll’s eyes, her mammaw called them. He placed his hand on hers and squeezed. “Besides checking up on you, I’m here on business. Kyle used a disposable phone, just like Jacobs thought, so there’s no way to trace it. The scary part is that he got close. Kyle”—he spat the name—“knew you were in the morgue. Which means he must have followed you.”
    The warmth inside her vanished. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, pulling her hand free.
    “Typical, evasive Cammie,” he said, his eyes locking on to hers. “Don’t talk about it and it doesn’t exist, right?” His tone carried the slightest hint of chastisement.
    “Can’t we just pretend that there isn’t a killer after me? Just for a couple of hours,” she begged. “Please, Justin, I really need the mental break. I want to . . . forget.”
    He sighed. “Okay. No more hard truths tonight. You do look really tired.”
    “Great. That means I look awful. Tired is a euphemism for gross.” She tried to smooth her hair with her fingers but knew it was useless. Stupidly, she hadn’t bothered to change since she’d gotten home, or done anything to clean herself up . Perfect , she thought. The only comfort she had was that Justin had seen her look worse.
    “I didn’t say that,” he answered, seemingly amused. “You know you’re gorgeous. I just think maybe I’m being selfish, dropping by when it’s already”—he glanced at his watch—“eight o’clock on a school night, which sounds incredibly weird when I say it out loud.”
    “Mammaw told me I don’t have to go to class tomorrow if I don’t want to and I’ve decided I’m sleeping in. I already texted Lyric so she won’t pull me out of bed at the crack of dawn. Stay. Distract me from my misery.”
    When he looked doubtful, she said, “A true friend would think of something to cheer me up. So . . . what do you want to do?” She looked around her kitchen, suddenly realizing their house wasn’t exactly equipped to entertain anyone under the age of fifty. Here, encased in a kitchen full of cherubs, she saw with fresh eyes how old-fashioned their lives appeared. “I’ve got cards. Or do you like games?” she asked, feeling lamer by the minute.
    He raked his fingers through his too-long hair. “How about a movie?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’ve only got one television and it’s in the living room and my grandmother’s in there,” she said, keeping her voice low.
    “Ahh.” His eyes twinkled. “And she doesn’t