“Well played,” I tease as he smiles. “I thought you’d have to carry me up real stairs. But an escalator? Well played, Mr. Hale, very well played.”

“Hey,” he says, coming toward me as though we didn’t just have an entire text conversation just to get me out of the car, as though that’s perfectly normal. “I try.” There’s a spark in his eye, and I wonder if he’s remembering carrying me into my house the way I am. Casual as can be, he says, “You’re the best surprise I’ve had all day. To be fair, you’re the only surprise I’ve had, unless you count the chocolate chips in my cookie at lunch turning out to be raisins.”

“You don’t like raisins?” I ask, numbly following his conversational option that doesn’t include my being oddly reluctant to come in moments ago.

Blake smiles, shaking his head. “More about anticipation than liking. Raisins are fine, but not when I’m expecting ooey, gooey, melty chocolate and instead get chewy, wrinkled, dried fruit.”

He feigns a shudder, and I can’t help but feel at ease, which I’m guessing was his intention because while he’s talked, he’s managed to lead me into his suite, closing the door behind us. It’s nice, more of an overgrown one-man office than a real suite, but on one wall I see a discreet doorway that probably leads to a closet or bathroom of some sort.

Before I can get too carried away, I shove the report his way, noting with embarrassment that I’ve wrinkled it from clutching it so tightly in my hand.

“What’s this?” Blake asks, taking it from me, then answers himself, “Oh, the second report.” He scans over it and then looks back to me. “Can you explain this, please? I mean, I see the notations for out of normal range levels, but can I get a hint?”

I blink, stunned at his utter focus when my brain is foggy with his nearness. “What do you know about heavy metal levels?” I blurt.

“Lead or Metallica?” Blake jokes before growing serious. He closes his eyes for a second, and I can see him searching his own mental file cabinet. He stays that way for a good ten seconds, but when he opens them again, his blue orbs lock on me instantly. “Certain occupations preclude insurance because of exposure rates. Other than occupational or environmental hazards, high levels are rare. Right?”

I smile. “Yes. In the old days, of course, you had lead paint, but that hasn’t been a thing for most folks in a long time. And Richard Horne, while he did die of a heart attack, his heavy metal levels are crazy high. Not just lead, either, but several levels. For no discernible reason.”

“What did Sheriff Barnes say?” he asks.