Rachel had suggested Uber—but with the theaters having just let out, thousands of soaked patrons were working their apps and when she finally found one, it called for a triple peak surcharge, the same cost as getting to JFK normally. They’d barely had time to debate clicking “accept” when it was gobbled up by some desperate theatergoer and they remained stuck under the London awning.

Frankel grumbled it was enough to drive a man to drink. Rachel thought that sounded like one hell of an idea.

She’d pointed out that Rue 57, a French bistro with a nice bar, was two blocks away and said she was up for braving the storm as they were already soaked to the bone. Frankel agreed, so they splashed their way to the corner of Sixth Avenue and the street that gave the bistro its name.

After they were given bar towels to wipe themselves semidry, they’d been shown to a booth, where they ordered Irish coffees to warm the chill. By the time they’d moved on to hot toddies in honor of the season, Frankel knew he was in big trouble.

Not only was Rachel beautiful, smart, and opinionated, there was something he couldn’t put his finger on that differentiated her from any woman he’d ever met. Was it the hint of vulnerability behind her smoky gray-blue eyes that awoke the protective nature in him? The way she laughed with the slightest of rasps that made him want to keep her amused just so he could hear it again? Or that she actually found him interesting to talk to and was still sitting there when their waiter came by three hours later to say it was “last call”?

To say that Frankel had quickly grown infatuated was the understatement of the year, and there were only twelve days left in it.

For the first few minutes, they’d talked about obvious things—the crappy weather and the case. They agreed that sleet and slush sucked, and it should either “warm the fuck up” (Rachel’s words, which pleased Frankel immensely) or “Let It Snow” and give us a “White Christmas” (he resisted the urge to offer a rendition of either song). Their discussion of the Commandment Killer had been brief; both happy not to talk shop at eleven in the evening.

More than once Frankel had seen Rachel’s eyes stray to his left hand and the slightly tarnished wedding band. He told her the same story he’d shared with her father over lunch a couple of days earlier.

“A beach bar in Hawaii. Sounds lovely,” she mused, looking out at raindrops falling in Technicolor, courtesy of reflected holiday lights. “Did you go after her?”

“I learned a long time ago when to stop pursuing a dead end.” He had hoped that would finish the topic, but Rachel seemed extremely interested in Julia.

“How did you two meet?” she’d asked.