Cindy lives on the south side of town. For the past year, she’s been making subtle and not so subtle hints to Teddy that they should move in together. His place still looks like a bachelor pad—clothes thrown in a corner instead of a laundry basket, nothing but condiments in the fridge—and I think it’s the knowledge that Cindy won’t put up with that combined with the fact that his mother would murder him if he moved in with a woman without marrying her first that has Teddy dragging his feet and me driving past the botanical gardens.

When I arrive, Cindy’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, a spoon in one hand and pint of ice cream in the other.

“Oh,” she says, taking a good look at my face. Then she grins to cover her surprise. “Did you do something to your hair? Something’s different.” She laughs when I don’t. “It’s just—I almost forgot.”

I blink at myself in the entryway mirror behind her head.

“Lucky you.”

“Ah, don’t be like that. Want some ice cream?”

She holds out her spoon to me.

“I’m good, thanks,” I say, wondering if the love of junk food is the glue that keeps a couple together.

“I baked brownies, too,” she offers.

I shake my head.

“Okay, then, follow me.”

She leads me through a gray-and-purple living room, down a hall, and into the biggest bathroom I’ve ever seen in an apartment. Double vanity and all, with a walk-in closet at the back.

“Nice,” I say.

“I know, right? It’s half the reason I signed the lease. So…” She extends her arm to a counter covered in an assortment of tubes and bottles. “Ta-da! They’re somewhat old—I don’t bother wearing makeup to work these days. And with the long hours—it’s not like Teddy and I go on a lot of date nights.” Something resembling reproof in her voice, and I’m left wondering why all the late hours if they’ve scaled back the Kemp case and what Teddy and Oliver have been doing without me.

“Anywho, I think I’ve got everything we need.”

An hour later, I feel ridiculous. Cindy’s smattered me with so many concoctions of skin-colored potions, my face feels heavy. I’m in a dress two sizes too small, with my phone tucked into my bra strap, and wearing enough makeup to cover a cheerleading squad.

“There,” Cindy says. “I can barely see the burns. You’d have to be”—she leans in so her nose is almost touching my cheek, her eyes going crossed as she looks at me—“this close to see anything.”

I chance a look in the mirror and blink. The woman staring back has my cheekbones, but they’re finer, the nose slimmer, the brows fuller, and the eyes magnified by the thick lashes Cindy’s glued to them.