“My mom always said I was too smart for my own good.” A grimace flashes across Ben’s otherwise-easygoing face. I reach over, place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It’s a familiar sensation to me: the fond memory that brings on the grim reminder. He drops one arm from the wheel, finds my left hand, and threads our fingers together for the rest of the drive. It’s intimate, and I think how Frank called me Ben’s girlfriend, and how neither of us protested. I squeeze his hand, run my thumb over the back of it.

“Frank spun some theory about a traveling killer. I don’t think it fits. Oh, and he called my grandmother a jealous harpy.”

Ben snorts. “Maura would take that as a compliment.”

“Did you know that she found Caroline’s body and was involved in the investigation?”

“Well, yeah. It’s pretty known here. And Grandpa was the sheriff. He and Maura are friends. How do you think I got the internship?”

“Right.” We pull into Maura’s circular driveway, rain beating like a timpani on the car as Ben slows to a stop and puts us in park. He has to let go of my hand to do it; my fingers tingle in his absence.

“Thanks again for picking me up,” I say. “And for everything. Indulging me.”

“I’m enjoying it. Being your partner in crime-solving.”

“Me too.”

Neither of us makes a move to leave. There’s a heady tension, like yesterday in the diner.

“Your hair is driving me crazy,” I say, grabbing the towel on his shoulders. “May I?” With Ben’s consent, I ruffle his hair with the towel, then comb my fingers through his drying curls to arrange them artfully. “There.” For good measure, I nudge his glasses half an inch up the bridge of his nose, and whisper my fingers over his jawline.

I’m close to him now. The center console is digging into my side. Ben finally gets the message, meeting me halfway, hand on my forearm, inching higher. I lick my lips and give the tiniest of nods, and Ben closes the gap.

We rocket past a chaste pressing-together of lips to equal parts electric and awkward. The latter slips steadily away until we’re all heat and breath and pressure and more. Only more can’t be now; it’s midday Sunday, in a car, in my grandmother’s front drive. So I break away, lean back, winded, assessing my handiwork with an uncontainable grin.

Ben’s cheeks flare adorably red, his lips kiss-swollen and his glasses thoroughly fogged. He clears his throat. “That was epic. And, trust me, I want to go inside with you and use your bedroom for activities other than working on a murder investigation. But I need to go. My grandpa needs me to do a grocery run.”

“And I should probably spend some quality time with my grandmother. We are so cool.”