Tonight I’ve cooked, which is something I’ve been trying to do more lately. Not so much to prove to Gabriel that I’m domestic, but to give some structure to my day.

“Something smells delicious,” he says.

“It’s just the sautéed onions. I honestly didn’t expect you to be home so early. In a half hour or so it’ll be chicken fajitas. I’m also going to make some spicy guacamole.”

“I’ll make us some margaritas, then. Give me a minute.”

Gabriel retreats from the kitchen, no doubt heading to the bedroom to stow away his weapon. He returns quickly and opens the cabinet where I keep my alcohol.

“I see tequila, but no margarita mix,” he says, his head stuck in the cabinet.

“This is a from-scratch operation, my friend,” I call back.

He stands up straight. “I talk big,” he says with a chuckle, “but I don’t know how to make a margarita without margarita mix.”

“That’s why God invented the Internet.”

He rolls his eyes but reaches for his phone. A few taps later he says, “Okay. Two ounces of tequila . . . check. One ounce of lime juice. Do you have that much?”

I laugh. “Yes, but you’ll need more than that if I’m having any. Luckily, I have a whole container, so we’re good there. What about the Cointreau?”

“You’re good. I was just about to ask you what that is.”

“It’s a kind of liqueur. Check the cabinet. I think I have some. Or at least I did once.”

I can hear the bottles clacking against one another. “I don’t see it. Can you make it without it . . . Oh wait . . . Yup, you have some.”

He walks the bottle into the kitchen with a proud look on his face, as if he’s Indiana Jones extracting some ancient artifact from a secure crypt. “Two margaritas coming up.”

He opens the freezer and plunks two ice cubes into each glass, then stirs the ingredients together and sets the finished product on the counter in front of me.

“To . . . a new challenge,” he says, raising his glass.

I clink my glass to his. “Is mixing a margarita a new challenge for you, Gabriel?”

He takes a sip of his creation. “I was referring to your new job.”

I take a sip. It’s good. Perfect, even.

“I still haven’t told McKenney I’m taking it.”

“I’m not McKenney. What are you telling me?”

I take another swallow of the margarita. Then one more.

“Yeah, I’m going to do it.”

Gabriel looks down at his drink. I know this expression: he has something to say but doesn’t think it’s his place to say it.

“What?” I say.

He sighs. “What what?”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t think Dana killed her.”

“Who, then?”

“Richard. The affair gives him a strong motive.”