Morgan chewed a piece of ice, felt the cold slipping down her throat. What could he know of the means she’d gone to to make money? She had been an avid photographer since high school, when she first picked up a film camera and developed the negatives herself. She could still remember the smell of the chemicals—the fixer and the stop bath—and the feeling of a moment long gone being resurrected before her eyes on a sheet of glossy paper. A moment that she’d captured, preserved, immortalized. It felt a little like playing God, and for a feeling like that, who wouldn’t come back for more? She’d lost sight of it in recent years, or perhaps not. Perhaps it was the pursuit of that feeling that set her on course for her latest venture. The one that had burned to the ground. Luckily for Morgan, she found photography to be a little like riding a bike. Once you knew how to chase light and bend shadows, it wasn’t something you readily forgot.

“Are you slamming my career choice, Mr. Reynolds?”

“Not at all. In fact, if it weren’t for you picking up that camera, you and I never would have met. So, I’d say that, to date, you’ve made all the right choices.”

“To date” was a strong phrase. Since her previous life had burned to the ground just a few months ago, she’d been trying to make the right choices. Help her parents. Drive her grandpa to the senior home twice a week. Swear less. Smile more. It was hard, particularly the swearing and smiling part.

“I’m trying,” she admitted.

Bennett touched his glass to hers and downed the last of his drink. He ordered another round for both of them.

As much as losing everything sucked, a part of her felt that she’d been reborn in that fire. A phoenix risen from the ashes and given a key to a new life. She hadn’t stuck around for the results of the investigation and knew only what she read online. The fire department determined the culprit to be a branding stove whose flames caught on a curtain or a piece of artwork. Morgan had shaken her head as she scrolled through the article on her phone. The branding stove had been kept in a corner, no less than six feet from the walls. There were no curtains; the windows were painted black. Which meant that either the fire department was wrong, or someone had crept in and made a spark.

“You know, you’re different without it.” Bennett’s voice punctured her reverie.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your camera. Not to sound critical—”

“—but you’re about to criticize me?”

He laughed, looking down at the bar. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Morgan scooted closer, her knee bumping his again. “Now, you have to tell me.”

Bennett sighed, leaned back. As he did so, Morgan’s eyes busied themselves with tracing the definition under his sweater. Whose stupid idea was it to make cable-knit sweaters so thick?