“Fine. Dinner at a fancy restaurant of my choice.”

“Done. And if I win—” He paused, as if considering his options. The wicked grin that touched his lips had all sorts of possibilities racing through my mind.

“Yes?” I said when he didn’t immediately go on.

“You do my ironing for a week.”

“What?” I all but spluttered. “Are you crazy?”

“Have you seen the state of my wardrobe?”

“Yes, but me, ironing?”

“You’re disappointed it’s not something sexual. Go on, admit it.”

“I’m shocked more than disappointed.” I grinned. “It seems you still have a few surprises up your sleeve.”

“It’d quickly get boring if I didn’t.”

I was pretty sure that being involved with Jackson, on any level, would never get boring.

“And I, my dear Emberly, would say exactly the same thing about you.”

“I was very boring before I met you. It was supposed to be Rory’s turn to raise merry hell this century.”

“Once all this shit with Rinaldo and the research is over, PIT will go back to ignoring us, and things will get back to normal.” He paused. “Or as normal as things ever get when you’re running a PI agency.”

Somehow, I really doubted “normal” was something that would ever be applied to our lives again. Not if what both Lan and Grace had said was true.

Hamberly lived in one of those beautiful old Melbourne streets with wide footpaths and huge plane trees that arched over the road, creating a living green tunnel to drive through.

His house was hidden behind a six-foot green metal fence, but it was nowhere near as tidy as the other houses on the street. Weed and bushes scrambled wildly over the fence, and it wasn’t a result of his being dead. It had been like this the last time I’d come here.

As we walked over to his gate, I rather warily eyed the bushes that all but hid his neighbor’s yard. The elderly woman who owned the place had jumped out at me with questions—and scared me half to death—when a prophetic dream had sent me here after the Aswang, but far too late to save Hamberly. Thankfully, the old girl appeared to be elsewhere today.

We opened the gate and walked up to the front door. This time it was locked, and yellow and black police tape was barring our entry.

Jackson took the lock picks out of his pocket and in very little time, the door was open. He stepped through the tape, his footsteps echoing as he moved into the front room—Hamberly’s bedroom. I followed him in. That odd, almost chemical smell that had been here last time was gone; the air held only a slightly acidy taint that spoke of the fire that had almost wiped out the kitchen.

Jackson walked across to the mahogany wardrobe. “Nice, but not lockable.”