“When I told you we were going to be working together, you said you hadn’t talked in years. All that stuff you just described happened a long time ago. Be honest,” I said. “Do you have anything in common now other than being from the same town?”

“Sure we do,” Carson said. “We have you.” He tilted his head and studied me. “Okay, so we’re not exactly besties. But let’s look at this another way. You’ve got some random grandma on the guest list who you met in a kung fu class you stopped taking six months ago.”

“Karate,” I said, “and Sueanne’s in her fifties. She doesn’t have grandkids yet.”

“I stand corrected. Tim’s local, and we both know him. Inviting him makes sense. So what’s this really about?”

Carson was always analyzing, always two steps ahead. Watching him think reminded me of riding the subway. To pass the time and hone my investigative skills, I used to observe the other commuters and try to read their body language, their minds. I’ll never know if I was right, but it was a fun challenge. With Carson, there was no point even trying. When he looked at me, my fiancé could have been devising a new name for my condition, considering disclosing his darkest secret, deciding whether to have a second bagel, or all of the above. That fascinated me, and it never got old.

“Work is work. This is personal,” I said. “I don’t feel comfortable blurring the lines.”

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Thirteen months.” As if I needed reminding.

“Thirteen months since it happened.” He used his thumb to remove a smear of cream cheese from his plate. Carson had mild OCD, which I thought was ironic given his profession—or maybe it made perfect sense. He couldn’t stand it when things were a mess. “Thirteen months since I found you, and every day I worry—every single day. And now, at last, you’re going to be my wife.” He glanced at my hand, at the ring, and paused. “It’s my job to protect you. It’s why you hired me.” He waited for me to laugh, but the joke was old and inaccurate. I never hired Carson; he was assigned to me. “I love you, you know that,” he said. “So sue me if I want to make damn sure the guy I used to cut school with, and who now spends ten hours a day by your side, isn’t another deranged piece of shit.”

My vision blurred and the room turned white. We had a rule: Don’t talk about Bram. We’d long since picked apart what happened between me and him. I’d rehashed my time in that cellar until my throat was raw. The day Carson finally suggested we shift the conversation from Bram to me in an effort to help me heal, I was ecstatic. And here he was comparing my colleague to the man who stabbed those women. Becca. Lanie. Jess.

I took a breath and willed my palpitations to diminish. Carson’s worried about me. That’s all. For a second I considered telling him he didn’t need to be, because I didn’t expect to be with Tim for long. I was sure McIntyre would still change her mind and drop me. When we first got to A-Bay I didn’t unpack my clothes for weeks; why bother, when I wouldn’t be staying? If I blew my chances at the only detective gig around, we’d have to relocate, no question. My apathy toward living out of boxes had driven Carson crazy. He wanted me settled in his hometown. The whole point was to leave New York—and what happened there—behind. Carson would feel better knowing I’d be his again, all his, very soon.