“Right. Card. On it. Leaving.”

She started to go but stopped at the door.

“Will you call me if and when you find his car?” she asked.

“You want me to?”

“You might need me to translate for you. I speak Kink and Vanilla.”

“I noticed,” he said. “I’ll call you. I won’t open the trunk until you get there. Just in case.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. If there’s another one of those demonic cock rings in the trunk, I’m making you pick it up this time.”

“I’ll bring my gloves,” she said.

“Bring lots of gloves,” he said. “And a Hazmat suit.”

She left Cyrus with his box of credit card bills, found her car, and drove straight home. She’d promised Søren she’d get back by five, and it was only a little after two when she walked through her backdoor.

Gmork jogged to her in happy greeting. A yellow Post-it was stuck to his back fur.

Muzzle me, it read.

“Søren,” she growled. Gmork growled when she growled. “Don’t worry, boy. I’m not going to muzzle you. I might muzzle Blondie though.” She went upstairs and found the door to her bedroom closed. She didn’t remember closing it last night before leaving. Quietly, in case Søren was asleep, she opened the door.

No, not sleeping. He lay on her bed, head propped on her pillows, reading. What a sight—an excruciatingly handsome blond man in jeans and t-shirt in her bedroom, framed erotic pen-and-ink art on the red walls.

“Eleanor?” he said from behind his book.

“Give me a sec. I’m picturing you handcuffed to my headboard.”

He looked over the top of her book at her, eyebrow arched. The look was not friendly.

“You aren’t allowed to do that.”

“A girl can dream.”

He laid the book across his stomach. Nora stood in the doorway a moment longer just to appreciate the view of Søren on her bed. “Done sleuthing?”

“Done sleuthing for the day,” she said. “We didn’t find anything, but Cyrus is out looking for Father Ike’s car. Might be something in there.”

“Or not.”

“Or not,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about Father Ike with Søren. Not yet. Too upsetting to talk to a priest about digging through the private life of another priest. She knew Søren would probably prefer she stayed far, far away from this case. But she couldn’t.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Where God Happens by Rowan Williams,” he said. “Book of sermons by the former Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“I have porn, you know. The good stuff, too. Kinky. Hot. Well-written. I should know. I wrote it.”

“This is Anglican porn,” he said.

Nora shut the door, stranding Gmork in the hall.

“Anglican porn…you thinking of converting?” she asked, crawling to Søren on the bed and resting her chin on his chest. “Last I heard, Anglican priests were allowed to get laid.”

“Not even Anglican priests are allowed to have mistresses. They’re definitely not allowed to have mistresses and children with married women.”