Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

I call my parents in Arizona, but their voicemail picks up.
They’re probably over at a friend’s house, toasting with
eggnog, eyes bright with holiday cheer.
Even retirees have a better social life than me.
I’d call Sloane, but I can’t figure out the time difference
between Tahoe and Rome without looking it up. Plus, she
could be in Norway by now. Africa. Brazil. The last time we
spoke, several days ago, she and Stavros were mulling over
maps.
It sounded like she was having so much fun, she might
never come back.
Wondering why Kage hasn’t called yet, I mope around the
house until it’s time to let Mojo out for one last pee before
bed. As I’m standing shivering on the front porch in my fuzzy
slippers and winter coat, watching the dog sniff around in the
bushes, a car drives slowly by the house.
It’s a white sedan with lights mounted on the roof and the
words Placer County Sherriff painted on the side in gold and
green.
Chris pulls to a stop at the curb, parks the car, and gets out,
leaving it running.
Wonderful. Exactly what I needed right now. Thanks a lot,
universe.
I consider taking the dog and going back inside, but figure
Chris would just pound on my door until I opened up anyway.
So I wait on the porch as he approaches, hat in hand.
“Evening, Nat,” he says, stopping a respectful distance
away. “Merry Christmas.”
His tone is neutral. His expression is unreadable. I have no
idea if he’s happy, sad, or about to explode in burning rage.
I say pleasantly, “Merry Christmas, Chris. I’m surprised to
see you working tonight. Does your boss not give you holidays
off from spying on your ex-girlfriends?”
“I’m not spying on you.”