She sipped on the glass of wine I’d poured her as our movie played in the background. Every wine night took place in my apartment. I’d pushed to hold one in Mallory’s, but she was far too embarrassed about what she claimed was a mess.

I doubted it. Mallory was the most particular perfectionist I’d ever known, but it was useless to push.

“No one,” I answered for the thousandth time. She wouldn’t drop it.

I took a sip of my wine, letting the crisp taste wash over my tongue. A car engine revved outside, and I startled before I could set the wine glass down, spilling a drop on the couch.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“That’s why you never should have bought a cream-colored couch,” Mallory said, her eyes never once leaving the rom-com she picked out.

“It’ll come out,” I said, more as a prayer than an answer.

I hurried to the kitchen to dig through my cabinets to find anything I could use to clean it. Random cleaning supplies rattled in my lower cabinets, and I found one that looked similar to fabric cleaner. I grabbed a paper towel from my counter and made my way back to the couch.

Mallory paid me no attention.

The stain was small, barely bigger than a quarter. I sprayed the fabric cleaner on the couch and blotted at it. Never scrub—that was the only trick I’d learned from my father growing up.

Scrubbing will only guarantee you’re stuck with the stain. His voice echoed through my head. I kept blotting until I could barely see the red anymore.

“That stuff smells like chemicals,” Mallory complained.

I couldn’t smell a thing. “It’s odorless,” I countered.

She shrugged and returned to the television. “So who is he?” she pushed again without looking at me.

“I told you, he was here to fix my computer,” I answered.

She scoffed. ‘You expect me to believe that?” she asked. “Seriously, Len, give it up.”

Was there harm to telling her? If it was an active FBI case, others in town would find out too. I didn’t see the use in hiding it from Mallory.

“He’s an FBI agent,” I admitted, sitting back down on the couch.

Mallory spit out her wine, choking on the liquid.

“Mal, I just cleaned up,” I groaned.

“Back up,” she demanded. “An FBI agent!”

“He just needed some records from the museum,” I quick defended, like a suspect put on the stand.

“About what?” Mallory pushed, her full focus on me for the first time.

“The Coastal Killer,” I admitted.

“You mean the case you’re obsessed with,” she said.

“I’m not obsessed,” I defended. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes on me. “Not obsessed,” I repeated. “It’s a case I’m working on for the museum to build an exhibit. It’s for work, Mal.”