She is facing him. They are eye-to-eye. He is just a few inches taller than she is, and when she wears heels they are the same height. She tucks her fingers between the buttons of his shirt and touches his abdomen above the waist of his pants. Her fingers move, caressing his belly, and he feels waves of heat radiate down his legs. She brings her lips to his and he accepts her mouth hungrily. He loses himself when they kiss. He has from the first time. The things he usually finds important drift to the background until only she remains.

She pulls her mouth away and smiles. “I’ve decided that you need to let go of your inhibitions,” she says.

“Are you calling me uptight?”

She keeps her eyes fixed on his as she digs his shirttails out and then starts to unbutton his pants. He is already hard from the kiss and he wants to let her continue. He needs this. He’s spent the last two days interviewing Lidia Hays’s neighbors and friends, he’s watched the ME slice her open and catalog her wounds, he’s worked through the night reviewing crime scene evidence and photos. Gretchen’s eyes are still on him, those perfect blue eyes, as she unzips his pants and moves her hand inside. But a glimpse of the bloodstained bed over her shoulder pulls Archie out of the moment and he puts his hand on her wrist. “This is a crime scene,” he reminds her.

He fumbles to zip up his pants, trying to fight his ache for her.

Her fingers play with a button on his shirt. “You said they were finished,” she says.

He looks at her incredulously. “I’m not worried about evidence,” he says. “A woman was murdered in this room. It’s a crime scene. It’s not right.” She drops her hands and he finishes tucking in his shirt. He glances at his watch. If he leaves now, he can get home in time to see his kids before bed.

When he looks up, Gretchen is slithering out of her skirt. It drops around her ankles and she steps out of it, one stiletto at a time. Her legs are bare and her flesh-colored underwear utilizes a minimal amount of fabric. Archie can feel sweat beading on his upper lip. She lifts the blouse over her head and lets it settle in a gauzy pile on top of the skirt. Then she reaches behind her back, unhooks her bra, and lets it drop to the floor. She smiles at him as she slips out of her underwear and kicks it aside.

She is naked. Archie hasn’t stopped her.

His breaths come heavily. It is suddenly very warm in this room. His skull is sweating.

Gretchen stands completely nude, the grisly tableau of the murder bed behind her.

“I’m not afraid of this,” she says.