“Not a great deal, if I’m honest.” Sir Richard shot her a self-deprecating grin. “What you might call a gentleman of leisure. I say, your voice sounds oddly familiar, if you don’t mind my mentioning it. Which is peculiar because I’m sure I’d remember if you’d been at any of my clubs.”

This didn’t happen often, but it happened more than it used to. “Do you … do you by any chance listen to Murder Most Actual?”

Sir Richard gave a gasp of recognition. “My God, you’re that Liza? I mean, it’s not exactly an uncommon name, so you’ll forgive a fellow for not making the connection, but I should have known at once.”

“Oh, have you met a fan?” Hanna sidled over and put an arm around Liza’s waist that was probably meant to be supportive but felt possessive, almost condescending. “I swear we can’t go anywhere these days.”

Something seemed to be confusing Sir Richard. “Hang on, though, you’re not … I was under the impression that you and Rachael were … that is, I suppose you are, but possibly, she isn’t. Or I mean, if she is, then she is, but not with you. As it were.”

Hanna’s arm was getting tense, and Liza did her best—really did her best—to give off reassuring vibes she wasn’t quite feeling and wouldn’t have known how to give anyway. “No. I mean, if what you’re saying is what I think you’re saying, then yes, I’m gay. No, Rachael isn’t gay—not that it’s either of our business—and even if she was, it wouldn’t mean we’d automatically be sleeping together. Especially because, as you can see, I’m married to somebody else.” She slipped a reciprocal arm around Hanna and gave her a half-hearted squeeze. “Happily married,” she added, then immediately wished she hadn’t because when it came to ladies doth protest too much-ing, she might as well have just said “Also, my marriage definitely isn’t falling apart.”

“Am I to take it correctly”—Belloc’s tone was thick with contempt—”that you are one of those interfering true crime podcasters who go around opening up old cases, and casting doubt on old convictions, and turning the private tragedies of strangers into clicks and content?”

Liza winced. “Sort of?”

“They’re actually very conscientious.” There was Hanna, riding to her rescue like she always did. It would have felt romantic if they weren’t in the middle of a non-consensual holiday, and if Liza hadn’t been drinking a cup of tea she hadn’t asked for. “They never speculate, they never harass survivors or dredge up old wounds. They just talk about interesting cases.”

“‘Two Girls Drinking Wine and Talking Murder,’” put in Sir Richard, who clearly felt the conversation had gone on too long without a contribution from his corner.