It was a good thought, smart, one of the things he loved about her, one of the reasons he’d fallen for her in the first place. He tended to take problems head-on, bull through them, but she could work it from all angles, find the surprise solution. He stepped forward and pulled her to him. She returned the kiss passionately, arms flung around his back, hips grinding into his, tongue darting and soft, and he felt heat rising in him, alive to every sensation, the pressure and warmth of her body, the cool air against his neck, the bite of her teeth behind her lips. They held it a long time.

“Is this crazy?” She spoke into his shoulder. “Are we crazy?”

“I don’t know. Yes.” He blew a breath. “It’s not too late. We could put it back.”

“Do you want to?”

“Do you?”

“Three hundred and seventy thousand dollars.” She whispered it, like an incantation. “Three hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”

“Me either.”

ANNA HAD NEVER met a detective before, and hadn’t known what to expect. Thus far she was impressed. Detective Halden had kind eyes and a nice suit. You didn’t see men in suits anymore. Coupled with an easy calm that suggested he’d witnessed most everything life had to throw at a person, it gave him an air of authority. She found herself trusting him, liking him.

The first cops to arrive had been regular police, two guys in blue uniforms. They’d rung the bell maybe ten minutes after Tom hung up the phone. The sound had kicked her heart into her mouth. As she’d opened the door, she’d imagined that they would see right through her, that they’d pin her and Tom to the floor and snap handcuffs on them. But they turned out to be nice guys. They called her “ma’am,” and after she and Tom showed them Bill Samuelson’s body, the younger one had chatted with them in the kitchen while his partner radioed for a detective.

Halden swept into the place like a CEO to a boardroom. “Detective Christopher Halden,” he’d said as he shook hands with each of them, passed them a business card with a little clip-art drawing of the skyline in blue. He stood in the kitchen and rocked back on his heels, his eyes moving over the counter, the ruined stove, the scorched wall. “I gather you’ve had quite a night.”

Tom nodded. “You could say.”

“You both all right?”

“A little singed is all.”

“Want to show me where he is?”

They followed him down the hall, the two of them stopping outside the doorway as Halden walked in. He didn’t flinch or hesitate, and Anna found herself wondering how long it took before you got there. How many corpses had he seen? What was that like, to have a job where all day you walked in on bodies?

Halden stood beside the bed, his hands in his pockets and elbows out to the side. Sweeping that same careful look around the room. “Check the locks?”

“For what?” Anna asked.

The detective looked over. “I was actually talking to the officers, Ms. Reed.”

“Right. Sorry.” She could feel sweat in her armpits and on the back of her thighs.

“No sign of forced entry,” the older cop said. “The locks are all in working order. Windows are open-”

“We opened them to clear the smoke,” Tom said. “Before we found him.”

“-but the screens are intact,” the cop continued.

Halden nodded. He took a pen from his inner pocket, used it to poke through the things on the nightstand. “How well did you know him?”

Anna looked at Tom, shrugged. “We didn’t, really. He answered our ad about, what, six months ago?”

“What did he do?”

“I’m not sure. He kept to himself.”

“You didn’t ask?”

She shook her head. “He paid two months up front.”

Halden pulled on a latex glove, squatted in front of the night table. He turned on the lamp, picked up the prescription bottle. “He ever mention an illness?”

“No. But we never really talked to him.”

“We’d only see him every now and then,” Tom said. “Mostly smoking on the porch. Is that medicine something?”

The detective didn’t answer, just took a flashlight from his pocket, clicked it on, and leaned down to sweep it beneath the bed. His gun rode high on his belt, and Anna felt her eyes drawn to it. After a moment, he rose, took Samuelson’s hands, examined them carefully under the beam. “He have any friends or family? Anybody visiting regular?”

“Not that we ever saw.” Tom rubbed his neck.

Halden turned off the flashlight, stood up, and walked out of sight, to the bathroom. Anna’s pulse seemed loud, and her hands trembly. Relax. You and Tom are good people. You have nothing to fear. She could hear the sound of the medicine cabinet swinging open, imagined Halden rifling through it, aspirin bottles and toothpaste tubes. After a moment, he walked back out, stopped at the foot of the bed. He ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek, the skin bulging out. Stood for a long moment, then snapped the glove off his hand. “Okay.” He turned to the officers. “Have the photographer shoot the room, then call for a wagon, get Mr. Samuelson to the medical examiner.”

“Want any techs?”

The detective shook his head. “Just the photographer. And bag that scrip.” He smiled at Anna. “You look a little shaken up, Ms. Reed. Why don’t we talk in the other room?”

They walked down the hall. The air had grown chilly, and she shut the window, the glass rattling in the old frame. “What do you think happened?”

Halden cocked his head to one side. “Well, no indication that anyone broke in, and no sign of a fight, no wounds on his body or hands. That prescription bottle didn’t have a label. That usually means that it was painkillers bought on the street. My guess is that he had a health problem, wanted something to take the hurt away, and maybe overdid it. But the medical examiner will say for sure.”

“It’s so strange.”

“What’s that?”

“Just…” She gestured down the hall. “You know, that he’s dead. That someone is dead in a room down there.”

The detective nodded. “It doesn’t look like he suffered. Believe me, I’ve seen a lot worse.”

“What happens now?” Tom leaned on the counter.

“Well, someone will take him to the morgue. We’ll try to get in touch with his family. You have anything that could help with that? Did he give references for the apartment, or have a cosigner?”

Tom shook his head.

“What about his rent? You have canceled checks?”

“No.”

“He always paid with cashier’s checks,” Anna said, and then froze. Stupid, stupid girl.

“Cashier’s checks?” The detective cocked an eyebrow. “Why didn’t he just use a personal check?”

Because he kept his money in ten-thousand-dollar bundles. Bundles that we stuck in an old gym bag and hid in the basement. Her heart slammed against her ribs, but she made herself shake her head as calmly as possible. “Never asked.” Realizing as she spoke that she was lying to a cop, a disconnected feeling, like she was watching herself from a distance. It felt somehow like she’d taken a step.

The detective held his gaze for a moment, a question clearly framed in his mind. Then he shrugged, turned away. “I’ve got some paperwork to fill out, and the photographer will need half an hour or so, then we should have the body out of here.” He glanced at the stove. “By the way, you were right not to throw water on the fire, but if it ever happens again, you should use baking soda, not flour.”

“Why’s that?”

“Believe it or not, it’s explosive.”

“Really?”

Halden nodded, then opened his binder and started making notes with his pen. “Yup. You got lucky with the flour.”

She almost snorted, just barely caught herself. Locked eyes with Tom, saw that he was thinking the same thing, panic laughter tearing them both up inside. Finally, her eyes on her husband’s, savoring the words, the connection, the two of them alone in it the way they used to be, she said, “Detective, you sure are right about that.”