Free The Given by Vicki Pettersson

attached bath beyond that. He’d just emerged when a muffled voice sounded from beneath the bed. “Grif?”
    He damned near shot off his own foot.
    Then a slim hand appeared atop the bedspread, red-stained, not with blood but lacquer. The half-moon manicure had a silver base and metallic maroon tip. He only knew what it was called because the woman who edged from beneath the bed had once taken an entire half hour to explain it to him.
    Katherine Craig looked exactly the same as the last time Grif had seen her, maybe a little thinner, though still lush where it counted. She wore a pencil skirt in the same crimson color as her nails and a black sweater that echoed the hue of her hair. Her pearl brooch competed with her skin for translucence and even the fear widening her eyes couldn’t erase the seductive slant of those lids. Maybe it was her makeup, maybe it was just the lighting, or maybe it was the fact that they hadn’t made eye contact like this in six full months, but Grif couldn’t remember her ever looking so fragile and beautiful at the same time.
    â€œWh—” she started breathlessly. “How did you get here?”
    â€œWhy—?” He took a breath, but the words tumbling in his mind curled into a knot by the time they reached his throat, so he exhaled and tried again. “Why the hell would you reveal yourself like that when there’s an intruder in a home with a dead body?”
    â€œGrif—”
    â€œJiminy Cricket!” He jerked his hat from his head and slapped it against his leg. “No, it’s like you want to get clipped. You might as well just wave a flag. ‘Hey, bad guy, next victim right here. Come and get it.’ ”
    Kit’s spine seemed to grow another couple of inches. “Are you seriously yelling at me? Right now?”
    Grif was about to tell her that someone needed to, but snapped his mouth shut instead. Nerves did strange things to a man.
    â€œI wasn’t revealing myself, okay?” She put a hand to her chest, coming around to his side of the room. “I wouldn’t have come out if I wasn’t sure it was you, but I was. Besides, I have this.”
    Grif’s eyebrows winged up at the dainty .22. At some point in the past six months, his Kitty-Cat had grown claws. He glanced at the peashooter, looked at her also considering it, and took an involuntary step back. He couldn’t be sure yet how sore at him she still was.
    â€œSo how’d you know it was me?”
    â€œEau de angel,” she muttered, reaching down and pulling out a vintage doctor’s bag from beneath the bed. Grif grimaced as he watched her. Of course she would hide her precious bag, probably some thrift-store find that she cherished more than her damned life. Grif was about to match her sarcasm with a quick rejoinder, but suddenly Kit deflated into herself.
    Falling into the wingback in the corner, she blew her thick bangs from her forehead and dropped her face into her hands. Grif would have thought nothing of striding across the room and pulling her into his arms at one time, but now he hesitated, his body wavering with the uncertainty of his thoughts.
    Kit didn’t give him much time to wonder anyway. She recovered quickly, gazing up at him for a brief moment before gesturing to his shoes. “Vintage Stacey Adams wingtips that look brand-new. Round laces, minimally worn soles, and a faint scuff on the right side. They’d sell for a pretty penny these days.” Then she added, almost to herself, “I’d recognize them anywhere.”
    Sure she would, Grif thought, swallowing hard. She’d seen them every day for six months. Even when he undressed—even after she helped him do it—the shoes would return to his body, along with the rest of the clothes, at 4:10 every morning. The exact hour of his death. Kit had always laughed good-naturedly and called it magic. Grif called it a pain in the