“Duly noted,” I said, chastised. If that was great tolerance, I definitely didn’t want to find out what Hel’s intolerance felt like.

Mikill nodded and drove away, his dripping beard wagging in the wind.

“I’m really sorry.” Lee grimaced. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

I shrugged. “You didn’t know. I should have.” I rubbed my chest, which felt sort of bruised inside. “Look, I’m just asking because I know how intense that was. Do you want to come up for a drink before you go?”

“Oh, my God.” He let out a sigh of gratitude. “More than words can say.”

Upstairs in my apartment, I poured Lee a scotch and let him talk and talk and talk, rehashing and reliving the experience, examining it from every angle. As it turned out, words could say a lot. It was okay, though. I understood.

Eventually the conversation came around to mundane territory. I asked Lee about his experience in Seattle. Apparently, he’d been headhunted while he was still in high school and was considered a total wunderkind and a rock star in the gaming industry. And I asked him about his widowed mother, who was suffering from severe rheumatoid arthritis.

“I remember her,” I said. “She used to chaperone field trips when we were in grade school.”

“Uh-huh.” Lee contemplated his glass. “She was the chaperone no one wanted to get stuck with.”

I hadn’t planned on mentioning that part, since I’d never actually gotten stuck with her. “Oh?”

He glanced at me. “Maybe you never had the pleasure. Mom never wanted the devil child in her group.”

Well, that explained that particular streak of luck. “I see.”

“Look, I love my mother, but she’s not a particularly nice person. Do you really have a tail, Daisy?” Lee asked me, apropos of nothing other than whatever unfathomable chain of association was playing out in his thoughts.

I set down my drink. “I’ll tell if you will. Which one’s ironic, Lee? The leather duster or the baseball cap?”

“The baseball cap,” he said. “Obviously.”

I shook my head. “Wrong.”

Lee laughed. It was a good sound, free and unfettered. “Are you calling me a poseur?”

I smiled at him. “Hey, if the duster fits . . .”

“I get it.” He finished his drink and levered himself out of the chair. “Daisy . . . thanks. I promise, I’ll build you a kickass database.”

I stood, too. “Good. Because I basically told Hel you were the only guy for the job.”

He looked a bit pale, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed. “Right. Let me give you my phone number. I’ll call you in a few days when I’ve got something for you to look at.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Are you sure about that? Trusting me with your actual phone number?”

“Yeah.” He gave me a sheepish look. “I’m sure.”