Despite the rocky introduction, he felt cautiously optimistic as he let Sara into his courtyard, then up the stairs to his apartment for the second time. He had realized that this working arrangement with Sara could be mutually beneficial. They both wanted murders solved that they were personally haunted by, and it would be easier for both of them with the other acting as a buffer. They could each focus on the opposing case, and eventually compare the two, and as a result they would both be able to hold back, retain some measure of logic and control. He hadn’t addressed the facts of Anne’s murder since its occurrence, not wanting to find irrefutable proof that he had in fact killed her. But now it seemed the timing was providential, and there was more at stake than clearing his own name, or absolving his own guilt.

There was Sara’s mother, and the intense need to fix the future of his long, mortal, flawed existence.

He didn’t necessarily deserve companionship, but he was also looking forward to it. In some capacity. Without allowing Sara to get too close to him or his life. It was a fine line, and he wanted to walk it. That alone should alert him to the inherent danger, should serve as a red flag that he was seeking out the thrill again, disregarding good sense for the sake of personal interest. But Sara seemed harmless, and he was in control, in ways he hadn’t been before. He was stronger now and he could handle anything.

Sara looked tired, even more so than the day before, and her shoulders drooped, her expression pinched like she was suffering from a headache.

“Rough night’s sleep?” he asked as he led her into his office.

She sank without hesitation onto the couch when he gestured for her to sit. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Did you drink a lot of caffeine?” His editor complained about not being able to drink caffeine past seven, so it seemed like a safe thing to say.

“No.” Sara stared back out into his living room. “Do you play?”

“What?” He looked where she was gesturing, confused for a second. Then he realized what she was referring to. His baby grand, collecting dust in the left corner.

“The piano. Do you play it?”

Never. “I used to. Not anymore. But the piano’s been here since the house was built. It was brought in as they were framing the house so it would fit through the narrow doorways. There’s no way to get it out now without destroying it.” Much like him.

“Why don’t you play anymore?” Her sad, tired eyes locked with his.