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You and I, Me and You: A Novel

You and I, Me and You: A Novel

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by MaryJanice Davidson

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You and I, Me and You is the final book in Davidson's laugh-out-loud trilogy featuring an unconventional FBI agent who finds love in the most unexpected places

Cadence (and her sisters) has moved in with Patrick and everything is more than she could have ever dreamed. Except why does the dreamy Dr. Gallo keep popping up unexpectedly in her fantasies?


You and I, Me and You is the final book in Davidson's laugh-out-loud trilogy featuring an unconventional FBI agent who finds love in the most unexpected places

Cadence (and her sisters) has moved in with Patrick and everything is more than she could have ever dreamed. Except why does the dreamy Dr. Gallo keep popping up unexpectedly in her fantasies? When her pleasantly steady love life suddenly starts looking pretty darn shaky, Cadence and her sisters find themselves knee-deep in a new case that brings the escaped Threefer Killers back onto the scene. The stakes are higher, the danger more real, the hijinks more hilarious, and the love and passion are more delicious in this final book of an unforgettable trilogy.

Editorial Reviews

Kirkus Reviews
Cadence Jones, the multiple personality detective, must juggle her love life, her fantasy life and, alongside her sociopathic partner, her newest serial killer investigation. Cadence is moving in with her boyfriend, Patrick, the rich baker/entrepreneur who also happens to be her best friend's brother. But when a new serial killer case heats up on Moving Day, Cadence feels pressure from Patrick to step back from the work she loves, and she begins to worry that perhaps she's moved into the relationship—and Patrick's home—too quickly. Also confusing is the heady attraction she—and Shiro, one of her "personality sisters"—feels toward Dr. Max Gallo, whom she's met before and who has a connection to more than one of the recent victims. If that's not enough, former adversaries are reaching out, complicating the current case, and the agency she works for is losing funding. While Cadence tells herself she's excited for a normal life, events conspire to threaten nearly everything she's putting in place toward that goal, which may be a sign to question what she think she wants. Davidson's third and final installment in the series featuring Cadence Jones and her unconventional investigative agency is full of witty banter, intelligent humor, and characters that are unique, quirky and perfectly rendered. The mystery is interesting but functions more as a backdrop for all of the other action and relationships in the book, rather than as the primary driver of the story. Davidson's accomplished navigation of the investigation, the romantic and professional tensions, and the full range of mental disorders and eccentric characters is clever, inventive and entertaining and makes the book a fun, engaging read.

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St. Martin's Press
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Cadence Jones , #3
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You and I, Me and You

By MaryJanice Davidson

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2013 MaryJanice Davidson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-02335-3


I'm moving in with my boyfriend, the one I share with two other women, and I'm doing this because we're in love and want to live together and make a family, our own family, and not because I'm desperate to do one normal thing. For once in my life.



Except for the murders, Moving Day would have gone on with no trouble at all. Okay, the murders and my partner showing up uninvited. And my best friend's OCD being fiercer than usual. And my dog's stealth pooping. That put a yucky tinge on the day. The murders were definitely the worst part, though. Okay, the murders and the poop.

Until Poopfest 2013, though, it was fun. Despite the nagging feeling that I might possibly be moving in with the wrong man.

(No! Even to think it is a cheat!)

Except of course that was ridiculous ... Patrick was 100 percent the right man and any

(Stupid bitch.)


— thoughts otherwise were ... were ...

Anyway, it was exciting to direct the movers and figure out which boxes went where. I was well into my twenties but could count on one hand how often I'd moved. I'd lived in a psych wing, and then near a psych wing, for over a decade, and after that in government housing. I'd only had my first apartment for three years when I had to leave because I had recently acquired a dog. And fallen in love! Those two aren't in order of importance.

(Something you might not know: the nice thing about being an inpatient is you're not expected to bring your own furniture, no matter how long you live there.)

This was my first house.

Our first house, I guess.

And it was beautiful! Utterly, utterly perfect. Which made sense because I was moving in with my utterly, utterly perfect baker. Boyfriend, rather. Who is also a baker, which is perfect because I love pastries. Perfect inside, perfect outside. All things in my life were coming together in a perfect fit. It was finally just so ... Hmm, what's the word? Starts with p ...

"Are you all right?" My best friend, Cathie Flannery, had stopped dragging boxes up the sidewalk (the loading cart's wheels were too dirty for her to be comfortable using it) to come give me a close-over. (Close-over = Flanneryism combination of giving someone a close-up and a once-over in the same glance. Yeah, it's weird.) "You look kind of glazed." She was close enough to make this out as she looked deep into my eyes, which was as unsettling as you'd guess. "Cadence, are you in there? Helloooooo?"

"Stop that." I waved her back a step. "You know perfectly well I'm driving the body this morning. The glaze is because it's so hot out."

"It's the week before Christmas. Here in balmy southern Minnesota."

You might think it was condescending or weird to have someone tell me the season and the state, but Cathie was only covering her bases, and she thought she was covering mine.

Two other people live in my body, is the thing. Sometimes they steal it for weeks at a time. They're squatters; I guess that makes me the slumlord.

(Don't ever tell Shiro or Adrienne I said that. Please.)

Sometimes I start my evening heading out for another viewing of High School Musical (but never in 3-D; it's hard enough living in a three-dimensional world without piling movies on top) and wake up in mainland China. That can be a problem for all sorts of reasons, beginning with my utter ignorance of all Chinese dialects.


Cadence Jones is ignorant about being ignorant! That blond giant willfully does not speak Chinese. She had the same opportunities I did when we were in China.

Squatters, indeed.



"... all right?"

I blinked. I knew I'd lost time — not much time; it was still daylight, the van was still there, it was still cold, Cathie was wearing the same clothes — but I didn't dare look at my watch. Not that I had many secrets from her. We grew up in the same town, by which I mean the same lunatic asylum. Except we don't call it that anymore. It's not nice.

Still, though I loved my friend, I'd never felt she needed to know every single second of every single time my body was hijacked. I don't even tell my shrink about every second. Except we don't call them that anymore. It's not nice.

"Can you believe it?" I asked, hoping to get her off the trail. "Moving Day? Isn't it wonderful?"

"No. No." Cathie shivered, rubbing her arms through her deep-green Gore-Tex parka. She was also wearing black snow pants, even though she only had to walk back and forth from the moving van through the front door — about twenty feet total — and it was thirty-some degrees out: balmy, as she'd pointed out. Cathie hated being cold almost as much as she hated being audited. "Don't remind me. I don't need any more horrific pics in my head."

"Now, now," I said mildly. Cathie also liked the status quo. For years her brother had been her brother and her friend had been her friend. She'd compartmentalized her life so well, Patrick and I had only just met a few months ago. Now her brother and her friend were a couple. Abort! Abort! Shifting status quo! "You know you're my favorite."

"Sure. You say that now." She peered into the back of the moving van, which was rapidly emptying. "You know, it's pretty great. I gotta give it to Patrick. Well ... some of the tiles don't line up exactly on the south side of the kitchen. And one of the light fixtures is a few degrees lower than the other ones in one of the bedrooms. But it's a fixer-upper."

I smiled and said nothing. The house was brand-new and perfect. There wasn't so much as a crooked seam (or whatever houses had that traditionally needed fixing) to be seen. But Cathie was particular.

"Last chance to change your mind. Say the word and we can hijack this UHaul."

"Did you set aside enough time in your schedule to be arrested, tried, convicted, and imprisoned for motor vehicle theft? And then maybe sued in a civil trial for punitive damages?"

"No." She kicked at a frozen tuft of grass. December without snow was just wrong, especially in Minnesota. A few days last week of forty-plus weather had gotten rid of the little snow we'd had. On the other hand, now that I was a homeowner and no longer an apartment dweller, I'd have to do things that homeowners did. Shovel. Mow. Start meaningless feuds with next-door neighbors. Garden. Can. Pickle? "Damn it, no, I didn't."

"Another time," I comforted her.

My baker-boyfriend, Patrick, came bounding out the front door, in his enthusiasm coming across an awful lot like an Irish setter with an unbelievable upper body and denim shorts.

(Yes, Cathie loathed the cold and overdressed for it. Her brother refused to acknowledge it and wore shorts all year round. You're right to be confused. When my life settled down, I'd have to devote some research time to the Flannery clan, which in its own way was almost as weird as my own.)

Our dog, Pearl, ran out beside him and I smiled to hear her bark. A black Lab cross, she'd been rescued from an abusive douche just a few weeks ago and was normally too conditioned to bark. The douche, incomprehensibly, wanted a dog but disliked barking. He was still in the hospital, which was as cheering as it was guilt-inducing.

"Our" dog meant mine and Shiro's and Adrienne's. Adrienne had snatched her, Shiro had tolerated it, and I had decided the dog could stay in our lives. This led directly to my agreeing to move in with Patrick — my one-bedroom Burnsville apartment was not dog-friendly. Regardless of the inconvenience, I had a lot of respect for the small black puppy — the vet figured she was about a year and a half old, and due to malnutrition would only grow to about two-thirds the size of a Lab. I thought that was sad; Shiro thought it proved the dog's intelligence. "Clever girl, keeping herself small for convenience's sake," she'd told Patrick.

I leaned down and gave her a pat on her small sleek head. She had no idea it was Moving Day, just that she was with us and hadn't seen the douche in weeks. Good enough.

"All done, huh?" Patrick swooped down and scooped me up in a hug. I was gawky and tall, about six feet, but he made me feel petite and cute. My feet dangled several inches from the sidewalk, and Pearl darted beneath them to snuggle around Patrick's ankles. (She was small and entirely black except for her white paws and a small round, white blob of fur on the top of her head: Pearl.) "They've got all the furniture in places where I think you'll like it. Okay?"

"Are the beds in the bedrooms?"


"Boxes marked KITCHEN in the kitchen?"


"That won't do at all," I said, smiling. He bent down and we rubbed noses, our faces so close his was out of focus. Not for the first time I was aware that if you looked at Patrick and Cathie together, it'd be a tough guess that they were brother and sister.

They were redheads, but hers was a bright copper and his was a deep auburn, so dark it was black cherry rather than red. He towered over pretty much everyone, especially his little sister, and was muscular where she was small and slim (baking gave him an unreal physique ... flour and sugar and butter in big enough quantities are quite heavy, and cupcake pans aren't featherlight, either).

Then there was the ten-year age gap between them, but I wasn't getting into that now. It had ... unpleasant associations for them. Not for me, though. I was fine.

I looked into Patrick's out-of-focus face and thought it was a perfect moment, even with the approaching car engine in the background. "I should have told you I want to sleep in the kitchen and fry eggs in the bedroom."

"Yeah, that sounds exactly like what you think goes on in bedrooms, dumbass."

Patrick's arms involuntarily tightened so much I groaned and gasped for breath. We all glanced over at the car that had swung into the


driveway behind the moving van. My partner, George Pinkman, waved a cheerful greeting, by which I mean he flipped all of us off. With both hands, so he was in an especially good mood.

"What's that doing here?" Patrick asked, mouth going thin with surprised distaste; he would have been happier to see a worm crawl out of his watermelon salad.

(Weird, right? Watermelon was a fruit. And not a fake fruit like a tomato, which tasted like a veggie but called itself a fruit: watermelon was a fruit. But Patrick treated it like a vegetable, slipping it into salads with salt and pepper and oil and vinegar. ... Not all the crazies, I can tell you, are in therapy.)

Pearl sensed the tension, darted off the sidewalk, stress-pooped in the frozen grass, then turned tail and darted into the house. She was a stress-pooper and a stealth-pooper, but she was learning fast and, given all that she'd adapted to in a short time, keeping our patience wasn't too much of a trick.

Besides, George occasionally brought about the same impulse in me.

I knew why he was here, but I decided to let George be the bad guy; he was so good at it. There was only one reason he'd show up on his day off, on my day off, on Moving Day, and it wasn't to drop off a housewarming plant. Unless he'd peed in it first.

But he still wouldn't swing by on his day off. He'd swing by on the way to work, tossing the peed-on plant from his ugly car and laughing like a crazy man as it smashed on our sidewalk and sprayed dirt everywhere. Yes, that was George Pinkman's idea of a housewarming gift.

"God," he said, clambering out of his awful, awful, awful Smart Pure coupe (in festive Jordan-almond green). "It looks like Martha Stewart threw up here. Just barfed, and some cutthroat real estate agent came along and put up a FOR SALE sign in the middle of it until you idiots bought it." His burning green gaze settled on me, which was awful. "Got a dead guy, Cadence. Time to swap out your granny panties for big-girl ones."


My baker greeted my partner with, "Too bad you can't stay for a tour."

"Too bad you can't keep flour or butter out of your eyebrows, Aunt Jane. And besides, like I'd want to?" He yelped more than spoke; when startled or amused, George tended to squawk or yelp. "Barf barf barf barf barf barf barf fucking barf barfity fucking fuck barf barf. I just ..." He eyed our perfect house and shook his head. "You're rich, right? I googled you in a moment of suicidal-level boredom. You're the Sara Lee of ... I dunno ... stuff Sara Lee makes. Why didn't you buy one of Tom Cruise's places? He's had to downsize since Katie wised up and started her version of Scientology: Take Two."

Patrick/Aunt Jane shrugged, but I knew the answer. Yes, he was a millionaire. He'd built a hobby into a career into a corporation that shipped delectable pastries around the world. He'd made baked desserts trendy and sought-after long before the cupcake rage.

(Cupcake rage, heh. Sounded like how you felt after too many cupcakes. Or when denied cupcakes.)

He could have indeed bought an abandoned Cruise mansion or a previously owned Diddy boat. He could have bought a ten-bed/six-bath mansion on Summit Hill for one-point-two, rather than the trim four-bed, two-point-five-bath in Cottage Grove. But Patrick had made his money; he hadn't been born with a silver spatula in his mouth. "Why would I want to clunk around in a huge mansion?" he'd asked the Realtor with honest bewilderment. "I want a home, not a museum." I could have fallen in love with him for that sentiment alone.

"Purple and gray," George was marveling, staring at the front of the house. "And a gray door. You've fulfilled your lifelong dream to live in a thundercloud, Cadence."

"It's not gray," I couldn't resist pointing out, ignoring Patrick's Don't bothereye roll. "It's Shale and Fig. From the ... uh ..."

(Martha Stewart Collection.)

"So, there's dead people? Let's go see dead people." I took a step toward him/away from the baker.

Patrick's hand closed gently over my bicep. "Do you have to?" he asked plaintively. "It's Moving Day. You've been looking forward to it for days. And I thought, after, we could maybe — uh — make the house our own?" George dramatically clutched his stomach, bent forward at the waist, and made throwing-up noises.

"Sorry. The dead can't wait."

"Technically they can." George bobbed back upright, fully recovered from his fake barfing. "They're not getting deader, right? Man's inhumanity to man has been pretty much a constant theme for hundreds of thousands of years. But somebody's gotta go catch those pesky bad guys, Janey-poo, and the FBI lost the coin toss. Along with various police departments and sheriff's offices."

"Your car." I'd actually forgotten about Cathie, who during all this had been standing by the van looking chilly (the weather) and puffy (the Gore-Tex). "It's awful. As awful as you are. I can't believe you did it. I can't believe you found the perfect car to showcase your awfulness."

"Actually makes your brain hurt to look at it, huh?" George loved his awful car for many reasons, not least the attention it brought him.

"I might have to paint it," she continued, staring. "That's how terrible it is."

"Later, baby. We gotta go. Mush, Cadence, mush! Over yon hilltop a corpse awaits!"

I turned and kissed Patrick on the mouth. "I'll be back when I can." "I'll start unpacking the kitchen boxes in our bedroom," he replied dryly, but he managed to return my kiss, glare at George, and jerk his head at Cathie all in one motion, which I thought was pretty neat. "C'mon, Cath, let's get you out of the cold."

"Even if I shut my eyes I can still see his horrible car," she whispered, turning and following her brother up the walk. "I don't understand how swans and that car can exist in the same universe."

"Wanna go for a ride in the car, girl?" George was shaking his keys at me.

"Wanna go for a ride? Huh? Do ya? Huh?"

The jingling was making my head throb. "Please don't," I said, two words that had never worked on him. (Which begged the question: why oh why did I keep trying?)

"Huh? Do ya? Huh? We'll go to the park! You like the park, doncha?"

Darn it, gosh darn it! Can't he ever just not be like this? Can't he ever just —


Excerpted from You and I, Me and You by MaryJanice Davidson. Copyright © 2013 MaryJanice Davidson. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

New York Times bestselling author MARYJANICE DAVIDSON has been credited with starting paranormal chick lit. She has also hit the USA Today and the Wall Street Journal bestseller's list for her popular Undead series. She lives in Minnesota with her family.

MaryJanice Davidson has been credited with starting paranormal chick lit. She is the author of the Undead series and Me, Myself and Why? Her books have been listed on The New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists, and she lists her goals as “Working for world peace, figuring out how to make potstickers, and speaking at writer and reader conferences around the world.” She lives in Minnesota.

Brief Biography

Minneapolis, Minnesota
Date of Birth:
Place of Birth:
Minot, North Dakota

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You and I, Me and You 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Tried to catch Meeee with a fishing pole but fails. "One more out the ol' thicket "
Judy-Ree More than 1 year ago
This was the third book in the Cadence Jones trilogy by MaryJanice Davidson. I have Ms. Davidson pretty much on auto read, so this book was a given. The first book in the trilogy, Me, Myself and Why? came out to very mixed reviews, but I enjoyed it. I found the second book, Yours, Mine and Ours not quite as good as the first, but sometimes that happens. This book however, really brought it all together and ended it on a good, if surprising, note. This is the story is of Cadence Jones and her two "sisters" Shiro and Adrienne. Cadence has multiple personality disorder and has since she was a child who witnessed her parents murder/suicide. Cadence is also a member of a secret FBI group called BOFFO or Bureau of False Flags Ops division. All of the members of BOFFO have some kind of mental illness, from her partner George who is a clinical sociopath, to a member of the crime scene team with kleptomania, and the office secretary who is agoraphobic. They all work together to fight crime, looking at things through a slightly skewed lens to track down killers.  Cadence, Shiro and Adrienne all know about each other and see each other as separate individuals who just happen to live in the same body. Cadence is the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Scandinavian decent primary personality, Shiro is a small logical, dangerous Asian woman and Adrienne is the red haired, fire starting wild child. Adrienne's appearances are sporadic and erratic. While on the other hand, Shiro and Cadence were the more dominant personalities with some differences. Shiro could look through Cadence's eyes and know what was going on, but Cadence could not. Cadence would then come back not knowing the date, time or even geographic location of where she was. This book is the one that brings out all the secrets, lies and brings the sisters the closest to reintegration that they have ever been. I know that the reviews for the previous two books have been very diverse, but if you have read the first one, or the first and second, you must read this one. It completely flips everything we thought we knew on its head and changes the rules. I was very impressed how Ms. Davidson pulled it all together and made it make sense. I gave this book 4 stars on Goodreads for shocking me with the outcome. 
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I have picked-up and set this book back down several times. Need a quiet place to follow this story.