Buried Secrets (New Adult Dark Suspense Romance) by Emme Rollins

headstone, not looking at her.
    “I was kidding with you.” She put her hand on his forearm, smiling when he looked up at her. He still looked awful—about as awful as she felt—with dark circles under his eyes and shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. He still hadn’t shaved. The stubble on his cheeks appeared lighter in the sunshine, almost red in this light.
    “Hey, I’m sorry about that thing I said at the funeral home.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d apologized to Shane Curtis. Usually they threw barbs at each other until Nick stepped between them and broke it up. Of course, Nick wasn’t here to do that anymore.
    “Which thing?” He cocked his head, blue eyes dancing.
    “You know.” It was Dusty’s turn to study the headstone, feeling her cheeks redden. “About wishing it had been you…”
    When he didn’t respond, she lifted her gaze, finding him staring off into the distance, over the gently rolling hills of the cemetery. She followed his line of sight, but there was nothing. Just leaves fluttering to the ground in the breeze, a squirrel foraging and gathering nuts. A fat, blue-black crow perched on the edge of one of the mausoleums, head cocked, one yellow eye searching the grounds for mice.
    “I wish it had been me.”
    “Shane…” She squeezed his forearm—her hand still rested there—ready to tell him what he’d told her in the closet at the funeral home. A variation on the theme she’d repeated to Suzanne. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. There was no sense in wishing it different, because you couldn’t change the past. The only thing you could do was move forward, one painfully slow step at a time.
    “No, you don’t understand. I could have killed it.” He unzipped his camouflage jacket, sliding it to the side and lifting his black t-shirt. He pulled the piece up to show her. She gasped out loud, although she’d seen plenty of guns in her life. It was a pretty little baby Glock. Her brother had one just like it, a gift from their father when they turned eighteen last January. Dusty had little interest in owning a gun and had asked for an iPhone instead. It was in her pocket.
    “You don’t have a permit for that.” You had to be twenty-one in Michigan to carry a concealed weapon—and you had to have a license.
    “Nope.” He tucked the gun back into the holster attached to his jeans. “But if it had been me, it sure would have come in handy.”
    “Wish Nick had been carrying his.” She sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. It felt comfortable and familiar when he slipped an arm around her. They sat there, hip to hip, staring at Nick’s headstone, a marble announcement. Dusty could feel the press of the handgun against her side, but she didn’t mind. It was like an extra bit of comfort.
    “Nick told me something the last time I saw him… alive.”
    She closed her eyes, not sure why she was telling him. Maybe it was the way he turned his head toward her before inhaling deeply, like he was trying to breathe her in. Maybe it was the way he cupped her shoulder in his hand, like he was holding something delicate—a tiny field mouse or a baby bird—and he was trying to be careful not to startle it. But mostly she thought it was the memory of his kiss in the darkness, the way he had taken it, how he had groaned and given into her response in that one brief moment before his senses returned.
    “What did he tell you?” Shane’s spine straightened slightly, breath catching in his chest. He went completely still, like a deer caught in the shine of a poacher’s flashlight.
    “He said he saw the way you look at me.” She hesitated, hearing his intake of breath when her hand moved to his thigh. Leaving it there, halfway up, she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, feeling him breathing again. “And he saw the way I look at you.”
    “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
    “Nick said he had the feeling, if he hadn’t been around, we might