"I've got my eye on you, fleabag," I mutter as I kneel on the couch backed against one of the windows and stare out at Whiskers as he slinks through Madge's rose bushes. He lifts his head, eyes glowing eerily in the streetlights as he searches the side of the house, as though he heard me and is searching for the source of his imminent demise. I sigh and try not crawl out of my skin. It's only been one full day back in town and I'm already going berserk.

After all the chaos of the day, I am grateful that the neighbors finally went back to their homes. And I grudgingly have to admit that Peeta was instrumental in keeping things from getting out of hand. He kept the town distracted and out of the way, saw to it that Brigham's body was covered with a tarp after Wendell had finished, and came inside to soothingly tell Madge as he gently held her hands that they were going to wait until after dark, when everyone had left, to move the body. Knowing that such a spectacle would cause a frenzy in the town and just make things more traumatic for Madge, I have to admit he handled the situation in the best way possible.

He also managed to make up a fantastic story about how he and his deputies were using the back yard as a site for a training exercise and Madge and I had offered to help if they needed it. Which not only kept my mother from dragging us to lunch at Sae's and grilling us until we spilled the whole story, but it also got her out of the house before she saw Madge's face up close and the heavy makeup she'd applied to hide her bruises. Not before Mama informed me that if I didn't come out to the house to see her tomorrow, she'd remove me from her will and give everything to Prim, though.

Then Peeta checked on Madge every ten minutes, talking in a calm and soothing voice that left even my legs feeling like pudding, and he answered the house phone if he was inside so she wouldn't have to field nosy gossips, and then he sent Thom to bring back enough groceries to feed us for a week so we don't have to leave and brave the harrowing aisles of the supermarket.

Once the body had been moved, he came back inside to check on Madge one last time, suggesting she take a refreshing shower and then get some sleep, if she could. Madge had followed his advice, leaving me to knock around her house and try not to pull out all my hair.

Okay, so some of what Peeta did today helped me, too. He made sure Thom actually brought us some halfway decent coffee grounds, and avoiding lunch with my mother also meant escaping all her prying questions about me and Peeta. But whatever, just because he took care of Madge doesn't erase the fact that he's a jerk-face who basically ignored me all day after being an insufferable flirt for the entire day previous and a Lying McLiarson who still owes me an explanation for last night. Then there's that comment about not leaving town and asking me questions like he's trying to control me or thinks that I'm guilty.

...Holy fuck nuggets! He thinks I'm guilty!

A thousand awful possibilities and certainties race through my head. Did he see me through the windows as I cleaned up the kitchen and our poison baking mess? Were there red stains and poison pie remnants on Brigham's body when he examined it? He was there last night when Brigham hit me, but for how long before Peeta body slammed him to the porch? Did Peeta hear me threaten to choke Brigham with his own balls? Even if he didn't, he certainly heard me demand his gun so I could shoot Brigham in the crotch and then he could shoot him in the head. Oh my god, the sheriff of this town heard me threaten to murder the mayor who then showed up dead in the backyard this morning.

I am close to panicking over the certainty that Peeta knows I'm guilty of murder - because unlike Wendell Reed, Peeta's not an idiot - when Whiskers pads out from the bushes and squats to defecate in Madge's yard.

"Are you seriously giving me a stink eye and taking a dump on the roses, you psychotic maggot? You are so lucky I still don't have my bow or you'd be target practice!"

"Could you please refrain from killing the neighbor's cat? I cannot deal with another phone call from Eustice complaining about you."

I whip my head around and my body follows, nearly sending me to the floor when I hear Peeta's voice behind me. He's leaning against the doorframe between the front hallway and Madge's living room, arms crossed and making the dark blue shirt he's wearing strain in an attempt to contain his biceps. He's out of his uniform again, wearing the same faded jeans and boots he had on at the hospital yesterday morning. He shoves off the doorframe and stuffs his hands in his pockets, tugging his jeans down just enough to tease me into wondering if his abs are as toned as the rest of him and whether or not he still sometimes works in his dad's bakery in town. I remember him tossing hundred pound sacks of flour over his shoulder like they contained feathers instead, or lifting heavy bread trays over his head to maneuver through the cramped spaces of the store front, but the obvious flex of his muscles beneath his skin is new. Or maybe I was too oblivious to notice all those years ago.

"How the hell did you get in here?" I ask and am quite proud of getting that out rather than asking if I can lick the tendon in his neck and let him toss me over his shoulder like those sacks of flour. I blame my overworked and exhausted brain for my inability to think or speak clearly around him. I did help my best friend bake a poisonous pie and then left it in an open window to cool while her abusive husband and possibly an unknown murderer were on the loose in town. Clearly I can't be trusted.

He walks into the room, running his hand through his hair and messing up the waves a little. For some reason, this small nervous gesture makes me smile.

"I turned the handle and opened the front door," he says as he sits on the couch and looks up at me expectantly. Great, another stupid mistake on my part. At least there's this, though, if he really believed in my guilt, he'd have come in uniform and already have me cuffed. Cautiously, I sit next to him and his smile fades. "You should probably keep the doors locked, seeing as how the owner of this house was just murdered."

"M-murdered?" I ask stupidly. "Are you sure?"

He lifts his right hand and pinches the bridge of his nose, nodding before dropping his hand in his lap. If he were smirking at me, I might think this was funny, because haha! He just suggested we lock the doors to protect ourselves, but the murderers are already in the house. Oh and I should refrain from committing any further murders.

"I can't say much because we'll need to conduct an official investigation, but yes. Brigham Tate was definitely murdered." His voice drops off and he glances towards the stairs. I realize that he's worried about Madge overhearing.

"She's racked out. Fell asleep hours ago. After the day she's had, a freight train could roll through the living room and I'm not sure it'd wake her," I reassure him.

Peeta nods and looks down at his hands in his lap, twisting his fingers together in a seemingly random pattern. Since he's not focused on me, I take the chance to stare at him without him making some aggravating comment about me picturing him naked. Which I'm most definitely not doing, by the way.

This close, I can see just how exhausted he is. His wavy hair is messed up on top and one side, and I can easily picture him raking his hand through it in frustration, like he used to do in trigonometry when he didn't understand what Ms. Wiress was explaining to us. Part of that may be because she mumbled and talked in her own sort of nonsense language, but Peeta was never the best at math. His strengths lay elsewhere. Literature, art, baking, sports, and apparently turning me into a pile of mush.

As I sit here, looking at the downturn of his lips, the pinched skin around his eyes, and the intense way he's staring at his hands, it strikes me how hard this must be on him, too. He's sworn to protect this town, and it's most prominent citizen wound up murdered today. Now he has to not only take care of and protect Madge, but also find a way to break it to the town that their beloved mayor has been killed. Not to mention that since the most exciting crime to happen in this town until today was some alleged streaking and a self-inflicted gunshot wound, he's backed by a staff who probably has no idea how to handle a murder investigation. And I feel guilty for thinking he's a jerk all day long just because I'm scared witless and he didn't dote on me the way he did on Madge.

"You've had a long day, too. Haven't you?" I murmur, twisting on the couch so I can tuck my feet up on the cushion and face him fully.

"You have no idea…" he trails off as he lifts his head to finally look at me.

His blue eyes stare straight into mine, and even though they're tired and have seen far too much today, they're still hypnotic. And I can't bring myself to look away from him. I actually lean towards him a little and discover that he still smells like a damned Christmas pastry. Soft and warm. Inviting.

"How about you?" he asks in honeyed tones that match his scent. "How are you doing?"

There's honest concern in his voice, but for some reason it triggers the wrong part of my exhausted brain and I narrow my eyes at him.

"Oh so now you're worried about me? After you spend the entire day ignoring me and never once showed concern for my well-being? By all means, though, do be kind to me now that the most traumatic forty-eight hours of my life are almost over!"

I shove myself off the couch, no longer able to sit still, and pace in front of him while he just sits there and watches me.

"I've never seen a dead body before today, and certainly not the body of someone I know, let alone my best friend's dead husband! But don't worry about me! I'm completely fine! I only left behind my entire life to come back to this dump heap town where everyone hates me even after I've been gone for a decade, all to take care of a friend who oh by the way, was also getting the snot kicked out of her for the past six years by her useless sack of shit husband! Then he gets himself killed in the backyard!"

I don't look at Peeta while I rant because I know that if I look at him and he's still got that look of concern in his eyes, I'll melt in a puddle at his feet, completely at his mercy. And if he's looking at me like the crazy person I'm acting like, I'll spin off into a world of pissed off that I won't be able to come back from or fix the damage I cause.

"I can't cry, I can't scream, I can't break down or show a second of weakness because my friend needs me to be the strong one right now. But it's all good. It's not like I care enough about the asshole to shed a tear about him! I'd at least like the option though, or for someone to make sure that I'm doing okay. And I'm sorry I bruised your damn ego by not recognizing you when I was exhausted and scared and furious all at once and it's been ten years since I saw you and late onset puberty did a fucking number on your face and whatever the hell else I've done to piss you off, but all I've gotten since I set foot in this town is lectured, choked, gossiped about, berated, and ignored so if you-"

My words end in a squeak as Peeta's warm hand wraps around mine and before I even realize what's happening, he's pulling me to him and then his arms are around me, my face and chest pressed into his. His hands slide up my back and then down. Over and over as I heave in a pathetic attempt to breathe and end up just inhaling his scent and gripping his shirt in my hands in case he decides to let me go before I'm ready. The weight of his chin rests on top of my head, and my mind finally stops. I choke back a sob and stand rigid in his arms, trying to keep myself held together. He's so warm and steady as a rock, though, that ever so slowly, the tension leeches from my body.

Eventually, I flatten my palms on his chest and tip my head back to look at him, scared of what I'll find in his eyes. He stares at my neck, a parade of emotions flickering across his eyes as he brings one hand around to brush over the spots where I know Brigham left his fingerprints in bruises on my skin.

"Do you have any idea how much control it took last night to remember that I'm supposed to be an officer of the law and that I couldn't just bash his skull to a pulp right there on the porch when I saw him put his hands on you?" Peeta asks, his voice low and rough. My mouth drops open slightly as I shake my head. "I've had a pretty good idea for years as to what that fucker was doing to Madge. But I couldn't legally do a thing about it unless she told me or someone reported it or he finally snapped and hit her in front of a witness. She deflected all of my hints, outright lied when I asked her straight up. The same laws that are supposed to protect people, tied my hands instead and I couldn't protect her because of it. Do you know how helpless that made me feel?"

This time, I nod and bring my own hand up to trace over what is now unblemished pale skin along his jaw, but my fingers know the shape of the bruise his mother once left there. His jaw quivers under my touch. Does he remember? He must. He remembers so many other things I was certain he'd forget. That I made myself forget when I left here.

"But all those years of frustration and helplessness were nothing compared to the rage I felt when I saw him hurt you," he says as his hand shifts to cup my cheek. "I'm sorry I didn't check on you or ask how you were doing today. You've always been the strongest person I know, and I didn't think you needed or wanted anyone to take care of you."

Something flutters in my chest, warm and curious at his words. Peeta thinks I'm strong? It makes no sense. Not when I've seen him endure years under his mother's fists, take down someone twice his weight in wrestling, and show kindness to almost every person in this town. But I lean into his touch because his words are exactly what I need to hear right now.

"You ignored me because you thought I didn't need anyone?" I whisper and his lips twitch for a second and then slowly curl into a smile.

"That was part of it."

"What was the other part?" I ask, confused about what's happening between us. I haven't seen him in ten years, and even then, we weren't good friends or anything, not really. And yet, I feel some kind of primal need to get closer to him, to feel the words on my lips when he says them.

"Because I was in uniform and working, but I knew that if you showed even the slightest hint that you were about to go to pieces, I might not be able to keep from doing this, something I've wanted to do for years."

"You're just holding me, Peeta," I say, trying to tease him as my hands fist in his shirt again and I am certain he's not talking about just a hug. His nose brushes over mine and all the air is sucked from the room, which is surely the explanation for why my brain stops functioning altogether and I lift up on my toes to press my mouth to his.

He doesn't close his eyes. We stand there, joined at the mouth and staring at one another, bewildered. It's a bucket of ice dumped over my head.

Shit shit shit shit SHIT! What was I thinking?

I pull back as heat floods my cheeks and I search for an explanation for why I just kissed him. Before I can get anywhere on forming an excuse, though, his hand shifts to cradle the back of my head, fingers catching slightly on my hair, and he brings my lips back to his.

And holy shit.

Peeta's mouth is warm and insistent on mine, as though seeking an answer to a question I don't know. His lips coax mine into moving together with his and I melt at the tender assault on my senses. I'm not sure how long we stand there kissing, and really, I don't care. How have I known him my entire life and not known the feel of his mouth on mine? All the ways his lips can turn my legs to pudding. It's surreal. That soft hitch in his breath right before his teeth nip my lower lip then he sucks on it to soothe the bite. Or maybe I make that sound.

He tilts his head and when my lips part on a moan, his tongue takes a taste. Just a small sample until I yank on his shirt and flick my own tongue over his to let him know I want more of that. Because I do. Sweet heavens do I want more of that.

We feast on each other's mouths and ragged breaths. I'm about two seconds from hopping up in his arms and wrapping my legs around him when his palm on my back slides lower, until just his fingertips slip beneath my jeans. I feel the scorching heat of them on the swell of my ass, and I whimper, letting him hold me closer to him. He groans, low in his throat, and I nearly squeak at the feel of his erection pressing into my belly.

And while I haven't been with many men, Peeta feels harder and certainly bigger than any others I've come in contact with. But for some reason, instead of focusing on how good this all feels and how this is probably the hottest kiss of my entire life, my fatigued brain chooses to dredge up a long-dormant memory of awkward teenage Peeta Mellark in a wrestling singlet, hands strategically folded over his groin, and I wonder if that was to hide an inconvenient boner. Once the thought is in my head, I can't seem to get rid of it.

And I laugh. I laugh right in his mouth before I can stop the sound.

Peeta yanks his head back and stares down at me while I slap my hand over my mouth and try not to make it worse, because I'm pretty sure I catch a flash of hurt in his eyes before he lifts one eyebrow at me.

"Not to be cocky or anything, but I don't think I've ever gotten that response from kissing someone before," he deadpans and I snort behind my hand.

"I'm sorry! It's not funny, I just-" but I'm still laughing and snorting because he said "cocky" and this is not how I expected kissing Peeta Mellark to go. Not at all. "Your hand's about to touch my butt."

It's a diversion tactic so he doesn't figure out what I'm really thinking about.

"Something wrong with that?" he asks with a grin that brings out his dimples.

"Doesn't seem fair," I say breathlessly. "My hands are trapped here on your chest."

"I thought you liked my rock solid chest. But for the record, you can touch my butt anytime you feel like it and I won't object," he says, but his eyes narrow at me and his hand slides further into my jeans to grip my ass, hauling me closer. He turns us and effortlessly lifts me to lay me on the couch, my legs falling open enough for him to settle between them and I gasp as his dick presses right into my center. "Still feel like laughing?"

What's laughing? Who's laughing?

I shake my head and move my hands to wrap around his waist. His shirt has ridden up his back enough for me to get my hands on bare skin. And god, he's so warm. He dips his head and starts kissing me right below my ear, his voice hoarse and demanding as he rotates his hips, grinding down into me, and even if I could remember what words were, I'm not sure I could string two coherent ones together.

"How about now?" he asks and my hands flex on his back in response to the tingling his voice alone causes. I still don't trust myself to speak, though, so I just lift my hips up into his and he gets the point. His mouth trails kisses over my neck to my jaw as he rocks his hips into mine and I nearly combust with the heat. When his lips reach mine again, his palm flexes on my ass, pulling me into him, hard. And I swear I've never felt more alive than in this moment.

We move together, hips rocking and grinding as his tongue once more massages mine. I wrap my legs around him and use my heels to spur him on. He groans, the sound vibrating in my mouth. I slide my hands up his back, his shirt catching on my fingers until I let it go so I can grab fistfuls of his hair and hold him right here so he never stops kissing me. His hair is so soft beneath my palms and I'm so lost in the moment, in the feel of him against me, that I don't hear the creak on the stairs until it's too late.

"OH MY GOD!" Madge screeches and Peeta jumps away from me too fast for either of us to neatly untangle ourselves. Our movements dump me on the floor with a shout of protest as he throws his hands in the air like he's being held at gunpoint.

"I didn't know you were awake! I didn't know Peeta was here! Oh my god!"

I glare up at Peeta as he mouths the word Sorry to me before helping me off the floor. I toss his hand aside when I'm upright, pissed off that he'd dump my ass so unceremoniously on the floor and hurt it like that after he seemed so fond of it just now.

Madge is still rambling, her hand covering her face and I huff before stomping towards her.

"You can stop covering your eyes now," I grumble. "Show's over."

"We didn't wake you, did we Madge?" Peeta asks, sheepishly running his hand through his hair and pissing me off even more because I should be doing that right now.

"No! Not at all," Madge says. "I just got up to get something to drink and I had no idea, so um, I'll just go back upstairs and you two can continue with whatever."

"We're done with whatever," I mutter as I pry her hands away from her face.

"We are not even close to being done," Peeta says behind me and Madge laughs as I roll my eyes and glare at him over my shoulder. He shrugs, and he's sporting a stupid grin I'd really like to wipe off his lips.

There's a knock on the front door. I move to answer it, but Peeta gets there long before I can take two steps, asking who it is.

"It's Thom. I saw your car out front. You got a few minutes?"

Peeta opens the door and motions for Thom to step inside, but he takes one look at Madge and I and shakes his head.

"Maybe we should discuss this outside. It's about Mayor Tate's autopsy." The last of it is whispered, but Madge and I are close enough to still hear.

"Autopsy?" Madge asks, and I can hear the note of panic in her voice. I grip her hand and turn to face her, looking straight into her eyes so she knows not to give anything away when I tell her.

"Madge," Peeta starts. "It turns out-"

"Brigham was murdered. It wasn't an accident or health related," I cut him off and squeeze her hands.

"Murdered? No!" she cries and then falls into me, sobbing hysterically.

"Dial it back, crazy. You don't get an Oscar for this," I whisper in her ear and she nods, slowly letting her fake cries taper off. I glance up at Peeta, who's once more making a mess of his hair, and Thom's looking anywhere but at us.

"I'm so sorry, Madge," Peeta says sincerely. "I wanted to tell you earlier, but we had to run some preliminary tests on the cause of death first."

She goes rigid in my arms and lets out another wail, which the sheriff and deputy in the doorway both take as caused by grief while I try to shush her.

"They don't know about the pie yet," I hiss in her ear, but I speak too soon because that's when Thom steps further into the house to offer his condolences on her loss.

"I'm sorry as well, ma'am. We're working as hard as we can to find the perpetrator and - hey! Is that strawberry pie I smell?" He lifts his chin, attempting to catch the faint traces of a scent.

Oh my god, the garbage bag is still in the closet.

"Nope! No pie here!" I say and Madge lifts her head to nod in agreement.

"Absolutely not. I'm extremely allergic to strawberries. Can't even touch the things," Madge says as I move to stand next to her and fling my arm around her. We are stone cold solid and they won't break us.

"You bake strawberry pies for the PTA bake sale every year. And the church bake sales, too," Peeta says, his brow furrowing in confusion. "My dad tried to get the recipe from you four years ago to sell in his bakery."

"Did he now?" I ask too loudly and squeeze her tightly to me. She stumbles a little and sobs nervously.

"Oh! I must have forgotten. With everything that's happened today and all…" she trails off as the two of them stare at us. Then she wails and throws herself back into my arms. "I can't believe he's gone!"

I glare at them as they both cringe. My hand rubbing soothing circles over Madge's back. "It's been a long day. I think I should get Madge back to bed."

Thom ducks his head and quickly leaves the house. Peeta, however, lingers a little bit, his gaze speculative and unnerving. Then he shakes his head and points a finger at me.

"Don't go anywhere. We need to talk. First thing in the morning."

I nod and consider yelling at him that I am not a cavewoman he can drag around by her hair and I will do what I please, but I seriously doubt that's going to help me with the whole murder suspect thing. As soon as he's shut the door and I hear his boots thump back across the porch, I shove Madge off my shoulder and shake her a little.

"You're deathly allergic to the pies you bake every year for charity?!" I screech and she shakes her head at me.

"I panicked, okay! You don't think they suspect, do you?"

"Oh I think they more than suspect," I growl.

"I don't know, they can't be certain about it, right? Otherwise they'd have already arrested us both." Her lips curl up in a sly smile and her eyes gleam. "And based on what I just walked in on, I don't think Peeta's planning to handcuff you anytime soon...or is he?"

I let go of her with a huff, although I'm starting to wonder about that very thing myself.

"Ha-ha. Ha-ha," I scoff instead and open the hall closet to pull out the white garbage bag I hid in there earlier.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Sneaking out the laundry room window and burning the evidence," I tell her. She nods, but the smirk is still on her lips.

"When you're done with that, we need to discuss strategy. I figure that if you keep doing what you were doing just now, Peeta will be so busy with his tongue in your mouth and maybe other places that he won't have time to arrest us."

My cheeks heat and I toss her a glare before I stomp down the hall. "Eat me!"

"Nuh-uh," Madge sings. "We want Peeta to eat you."

I groan and ignore her laughter as it follows me, but the scary thing is, I'm actually thinking about what his tongue could do in places other than my mouth.