His amusement dissipates, and he watches me curiously. “And you’re not like other girls,” he states. Lifting my eyebrows and looking pointedly at my arms pinned against his couch, I say, “That’s a given, or we wouldn’t be here right now.” “True. You’d probably be buried in a shallow grave somewhere.” The amusement in his voice is so wrong. I shake my head. “No. It’s not funny to joke about murdering women. Can we not?
