Page 1 of Death is Familiar

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The Muffin Man crushed into me. His weight threatened to crack my already bruised ribs as he pressed down, down, restricting my ability to breathe. My spine pinned against the floor, I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight. And from the look in his eyes, he had me right where he wanted me.

Perhaps I misjudged. Maybe he wasn’t part of Leslie’s Pies.

Which would mean I’d gotten everything completely and utterly wrong.

In all the commotion, the hem of my shirt lifted to reveal the fading blues, yellows, and browns from the beating I’d received while undercover with the Almeidas—bruises that would no doubt darken later.

With the Muffin Man straddling me, and the grind, pop, click from his weight on my chest, the bruising was the least of my concerns. According to Todd, my ribs were more than likely broken. If I got out of this in one piece, I’d be in for a stern talking-to for aggravating my existing injuries. But I’d deal with that later, after I dealt with the Muffin Man.

“You’re crushing me,” I rasped, tapping the ground. Tapping out.

“Shit. Sorry.” The Muffin Man raised his sandy blonde eyebrows. “I’m gonna let go, and we’re gonna talk. No fighting. No funny business. Got it?”

Without air in my lungs, I wasn’t in a position to argue. I wasn’t exactly in a position to move either, so I nodded. Anything to get him off of me. Anything to get rid of the pain that threatened to swallow me whole.

“Good.” The Muffin Man placed his hands on either side of my face, lowering himself so we were eye-to-eye, his face so close to mine I felt his breath lapse over my lips and cheeks before he pushed himself upright.

Ugh. I gasped, rolling onto my side coughing between breaths, careful not to take my eyes off the stalker who had forced his way into my home.

To be fair, he didn’t take his eyes off me either. In a sudden reversal of roles, he backed his way into my living room.

“I’d hate to see the other guy.” The Muffin Man gestured to my bruises, my split lip, like we were lifelong friends, and he hadn’t just broken into my apartment and tackled me to the ground.

Throat tight, body aching, I got to my feet and strode towards him in two wide, intentionally intimidating, steps. My real feelings—the discomfort—didn’t matter, so long as I looked the part. “What do you want?”

Raising his hands in defense, he took another step away from me, towards the only exit. “I come in peace, Delilah.”

“You pinned me to the ground. I wouldn’t call that peace.”

“You attacked me first.” True, but it didn’t make me any less angry, he’d done his fair share before this confrontation.

“You roofied me!”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” He scratched his head. “I’m usually very good… but I was a little out of practice. Didn’t take the large tattooed guy for someone who’d order a Shirley Temple.”

I’d known the Muffin Man was responsible for roofying both Jack and me at the Jackalope. But it was sounding awfully like he had intended to roofie Jack and Todd, and had accidentally drugged me instead.

At least it made sense.

If the Muffin Man had been trying to talk to me, alone, why not drug the two FBI agents shadowing my every move, and then talk to me in a public space? Speaking in public would have been a lot less invasive than cornering me in my own home. Even if that meant Jack and Todd would have been passed out at our booth.

Either way, I was livid. “You roofied me by mistake?”

“Don’t blame me. Blame your brother.”

“I’m not in the habit of blaming the dead.”

“And I said sorry. Wrote it in your mirror. Remember?” The exact message he left in the mirror was: Sorry about the drugs. We need to talk. Alone. And that was exactly what we were doing. Well, he was trying to, but my adrenaline, and anger, pumped freely in my veins. I didn’t rein it in. Not in my own home. Not when… I looked to the bathroom door. Shit.

It was wide open.

If the Muffin Man took a couple steps to his left, he’d be able to see the counter, and what was waiting for me. I wasn’t prepared for what I’d find, and I sure as hell didn’t want to explain it to a stranger. A stranger with boundary issues no less.

“You gonna turn off that alarm?” He gestured to my phone lying a couple feet away on the floor as a result of our scuffle.

When the chiming loop started again, I made a point of not doing what I was told. Cocking a brow, I let the alarm continue to ring as I leisurely made my way over to shut the washroom door. Once I was sure he got the message—that despite his intrusion, I was the one in control—I grabbed my phone to silence it.