“What did I ever do to you?” Cyrus asked.

Søren grinned. He pushed his black wraparound sunglasses up on his head. “It’s not personal.” A red-headed woman of about twenty, twenty-two jogged past them and glanced back over her shoulder to smile seductively at Søren.

“I hate you.” Here he was, doubled over trying not to puke from running four miles in thirty-two minutes, and this big blond Viking son of a bitch was over here getting eye-fucked by an Emma Stone clone.

“I’m fifty-one. Let me enjoy it. Shall we go again?”

“Hell no.”

“We can walk back.”

“Thank God.”

Cyrus stood up straight, took as much air into his lungs as he could manage, and set off back toward the parking lot.

“I have a long stride,” Søren said. “That’s why I can run a little faster than most men my age.”

“Yeah, tell me I’m short. That helps.”

“You aren’t short. I’m tall. There’s a difference.”

“Fuck off with all that. We’re done. I’m getting a new running buddy, and he’s gonna be short and fat, and I’m gonna pull him behind me in a wagon.”

“I can tell why Eleanor likes you so much. She approves of anyone who is comfortable telling me where to go.”

“Eight-minute mile for four miles? And you don’t even get a free t-shirt at the end? Nora’s right. You are a sadist.”

“Guilty as charged,” he said. “Though I promise, I’m getting no sexual pleasure from this run. Or…stroll.”

Cyrus shook his head. He swore to himself he would never—ever—go running with Søren again. He was also definitely not getting a wedding invite.

“What’s this about then? You trying to see if I’m tough enough to hang with Nora?”

“You’ve survived four whole days in her company and don’t seem any worse for the wear.”

“She does wear me out though. How do you sleep at night knowing your woman is that wild?”

“Helps to tie her ankle to the bedpost,” Søren said.

“No offense, but you’re kind of a weird priest. Ex-priest. Whatever.”

“There is no such thing as a normal priest. I would know.”

The morning was warming up fast. When they started running, it hadn’t quite been seventy yet. Now it was on its way to eighty, fast.

“I have to ask. You grounding Nora after last night? Keep her from playing detective with me?”

“I’ve tried grounding. Doesn’t work.” He shook his head, exasperated as the father of a rebellious teenager. “Honestly, I wanted to thank you for helping Eleanor on Bourbon Street last night.”

“Guess it was my fault she was there to start with.”

“Eleanor is wholly responsible for her own decisions. If she didn’t want to go with you, she wouldn’t have been there. I’m only glad you were there when she was being harassed.”

“No problem. I don’t let that shit happen around me if I can help it. That it?”

“I was also hoping you’d fill me in the case. It’s consuming Eleanor. That worries me.”