"Whatever."

"Regardless, we'll get you a new one. With a new number. I'll put you on my plan."

"How very... domestic."

"Well, you're going to be my wife, aren't you?"

She hesitates.

Hesitates.

"You're going to be my wife," I say, not phrasing it as a question this time for my own sanity. "What's mine is yours. Which, for the record, is also a Plautus quote: for what is yours is mine, and mine is all yours."

She's quiet for a few minutes before clearing her throat. "I am"

"Are what?"

"Going to be your wife," she says, "someday."

"Someday soon," I amend.

"Not that soon."

"Soon enough."

"Whatever."

"Whatever," I mimic. She's starting to love that damn word. "Speaking of, have you chosen a date? Have you thought about any of it?"

"No."

This time there's no hesitation.

Infuriating woman.

"No," I echo.

"It's not that I don't want to," she says. "I think I do."

"You think you do."

She groans loudly. "Can you not do that right now?"

"Can I not do what?"

"That! Repeating everything I say in that tone you use."

"Repeating everything," I say, "in the tone I use?"

"Naz!"

I breathe deeply, trying to combat the swell of frustration when she yells that name. I don't even realize when I do what she's complaining about. It helps me keep things straight to repeat her, to take her at her word and not misinterpret what she says.

"You think you want to," I say, picking up her train of thought. "Continue. I'm listening."

"I think I want to. I still feel how I felt the day you asked me, even though you never really asked me."

"I never asked you?"

She cuts her eyes at me, glaring, but doesn't complain that I repeated her words. "You didn't ask. You said 'marry me'. It wasn't a question."

"Huh."

She looks at me like she wants me to say more, but I'm not sure how to respond to that.

"Anyway," she says after a moment, stressing the word. "The point is, yeah, I think I want to, but the whole wedding thing is daunting. I just, I don't know... what's the point? It's not like I have anyone to give me away. Hell, I don't even have anyone to invite. Melody, I guess... I'd invite my mother, but I'd rather it not turn into murder, Game of Thrones style. She wouldn't come, anyway. And now Melody has her own stuff to deal with. I guess we could invite your former in-laws. I'm sure they'd be about as thrilled to attend as the rest of your family, who clearly all hate me. Maybe your father can cater the event."

Her words have a bitter bite to them.

I can't help but laugh.

"My father doesn't hate you."

"He clearly didn't like me."

"He just felt bad for you for having to deal with me."

"I don't need pity."

I smile at that. "Welcome to my world."

"Killer."

The lone word echoes through the den. I glance up from my work, eyes darting to where Karissa sits on the couch with her notebook. A strange sense of déjà vu hits me. She's back to taking notes while watching cooking shows.

It's quiet as I stare at her.

She's frowning, looking right at me.

"Killer," I repeat.

Killer.

"Yes," she says. "Killer."

I have no idea what she's talking about. Is she calling me a killer? Does she know something she ought not know?

After a moment, her expression softens, a slight smile touching her lips. "You have no idea what I said, do you?"

"Killer."

"Yes," she says. "I said I miss Killer."

It takes me just as long to comprehend those words, to realize she's talking about a damn dog. I remember her mentioning him when we visited the house in Watertown and then encountering the mutt in her father's house months ago.

"Ah," I say. "Your dog."

"Yes, I miss him." Her brow furrows contemplatively. "Is that weird? Everything going on, everything that happened, and I think the dog worries me most."

"That's a little weird, yes."

She laughs to herself, turning back to her notebook, and absently scribbles along the edge of the paper. I can tell she's distracted and paying no attention to anything. "I just... I don't know. I sometimes think he's the only innocent one in all of this."

"The dog," I say, wanting to clarify to make sure we're still on the same page.

Another laugh. "Yes."

"You don't think you're innocent?"

"Me?" she asks incredulously. "Not anymore. You screwed the innocence right out of me. Literally."

"I'm serious, Karissa."

"So am I. Maybe I used to be innocent, I don't know, but I'm not anymore."

"You really believe that?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm with you."

She means that. I can tell from the tone of her voice. She thinks she's one of the guilty parties, that she played a hand in what's going on.

"How innocent can I really be to sleep with the man who wants to murder my family?" she asks. "When you first told me about... about Maria, and the baby, and what happened to them... when you told me you wanted justice, I knew what you meant. I knew you were out for blood. And that night you told me, I loved you more for it. I respected you. The bloodlust didn't bother me. It wasn't until I realized you were gunning for me... for my family... that I was bothered by it."