“Look, I’m—” Liza paused. She was pausing partly because she wasn’t sure what to say, partly because she was giving Hanna an opportunity to apologise first. Which she never did. “I’m sorry,” she finished.

“Done making bets about dead people?”

Crap. Was she going to make this difficult? “I wasn’t making a bet. I just—can you pretend for just five minutes that you don’t have utter contempt for what I do?”

Setting her whatever-she-was-reading aside, Hanna swivelled around and sat with her legs crossed, a tiny ball of fierce energy. “It’s a bit of a jump from ‘I don’t like what you’re doing right now’ to ‘I don’t respect what you do in general.’”

The dynamic felt awkward with only one of them standing, but Liza didn’t feel like sitting down. Instead, she shut the door behind her and leaned beside it. “But you don’t, though. Do you? You’re constantly on at me about how ghoulish and weird it is that I find crime interesting.”

“I never said it was ghoulish and weird.”

“Maybe not, but you hint it pretty loudly.”

Hanna folded her arms. “Rubbish. And if you’ll remember, I defended you yesterday. Twice.”

She had, and on some level Liza knew she always would; that if there was one thing she could count on it was Hanna being in her corner against the whole damned world. But in the moment, it didn’t feel like it counted. “That was just you needing to be right.”

Liza could always tell when Hanna was hurt, because she made an extra effort to sound like she didn’t give a shit. “That’s unfair.”

Un-leaning, Liza walked over to the bed and sat a carefully chosen distance away from her wife. “Probably. I’m sorry, I just—do you think it’s possible we’re both a bit on edge on account of the, y’know, the murder?”

“Honestly?” Hanna squirmed. “I think that’s a bit of an excuse. I mean, also yes, obviously, but it’s not like everything was rosy until last night.”

That was true. Although given the choice between thinking about what might have happened to Malcom Ackroyd and thinking about what might have happened to her relationship, Liza found the murder far easier. “You know I really am sorry.”

“Me too.” Hanna began to unfreeze. Two apologies usually did it. She’d always climb down eventually, as long as she didn’t have to be the one to climb down first.

Kicking off her shoes, Liza slipped into bed and Hanna retrieved her eReader and went back to her book. Eventually, Hanna leaned over and put her head in Liza’s lap, and Liza began absent-mindedly stroking her fingers through her hair. Then, half in a daze, she asked: “When does the kitchen close?”