“Will you go to St. Paul with me?”

Niki raised an eyebrow like a mother waiting for the magic word.

“Please?”

“Was that so hard?”

“I promise, this will be my last favor.”

“Promises, promises. Where are you staying?”

“I’ll get a motel.”

“Or… you should stay with me. We can brainstorm before bed.”

Max had picked Niki up at home numerous times, but he’d always stayed outside, on the front stoop. It was one of his rules. She was attractive, and female, and his partner. If he wasn’t careful, rumors would grow like weeds, and he was determined to protect her from those rumors, kill them before they took root.

When Max hesitated, Niki gave him an innocent pout and said, “I promise I’ll behave.”

“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble,” he said carefully.

Niki looked at him with deadpan eyes. “Now you’re worried about my troubles?”

“Touché. I’d be happy to stay at your place.” He felt a tingle at the thought of lying down in a bed so close to her, as though some forbidden fruit lay just beyond his reach.

Niki’s house was small, but cozy. Constructed early to mid-century, it stood two stories tall, filled with intricate woodwork and built-in shelves. The living room had a stately fireplace, although its wood floors were covered with a tarp. She was in the process of painting the walls, going from off-white to a royal blue.

Max pointed at a wall half painted. “You missed a spot,” he said.

“Yeah. I got interrupted by a blockhead with a problem.”

“I like the blue. Dark fits you.”

“You should see the basement. Painted it black and bolted shackles to the wall. Got a torture rack on backorder with Amazon. I’m hoping it gets here by Christmas.”

“A girl’s gotta have a hobby.”

“Do you think that makes it officially a dungeon?”

“Does it have egress windows?”

“No.”

“Then I think you’re good.”

She showed him into the kitchen and dining room, bright white with royal blue tile for the backsplash. On a shelf against the wall Max saw pictures of Niki’s mother and father. In one, her parents were young and her mother held a baby that Max figured had to be Niki. In another the couple stood beside a kindly looking man with a pastor’s collar. Niki had told Max about how her family, refugees from Vietnam, had been sponsored by a church in St. Paul. Max thought that the man in the picture might be that pastor.

In the corner, he saw a picture of him and Niki. They were in a room—an apartment, maybe—and he stood beside Niki, his hand on his chin, as though rubbing it. She was bent with her hands on her knees. They both looked at something on the ground just out of the frame. Max had never seen that picture before, and he looked closer to try to remember when it might have been taken. Niki must have noticed.