“Come in here.” She was dressed for bed. The smell of gin seeping out of her pores was so strong Ted was concerned about a contact high. He didn’t think he reeked of stale beer. Of course, he’d showered, shaved, and fortified himself with strong coffee and hot sauce. Cheryl needed another twelve hours, detox, and a makeover.

She led the way down a short hallway to the living room. The sunlight was bright. Her nightgown was thin. Translucent. She wasn’t wearing underwear. A butterfly tattoo swayed with each step.

The decor was modern but not sterile. An L-shaped couch faced a glass and chrome coffee table. Two low swivel chairs completed the seating. A bookcase displayed a collection of porcelain dolls, some of which looked quite old. It was hard to imagine Richie relaxing in this room. There was no sign that he had ever been there. Not a picture, a memento, or even a dropped sock.

Cheryl lowered herself onto the couch. “Make yourself useful. Put up some coffee.” She might have let Ted in, but she had not surrendered. She was in charge.

There was a Keurig on the counter with a stainless carousel of pods. Espresso and dark roast predominated, but there were a few forlorn containers of mocha almond. He found mugs and made two espressos, letting his sit while hers brewed.

“How do you take yours?” he called.

No answer. He stuck his head out. Cheryl was splayed on the couch, fast asleep.

He drank his coffee, then gave himself a complete tour of the premises. It can’t be snooping if you’re invited in, he thought. The king-size bed was a mess, a blanket trailing on the floor and the top sheet free floating. Two people performing an athletic pas de deux might have left such a trail. Or one tormented drunk with a guilty conscience.

The damned dolls all seemed to be watching as he passed through the living room on his way to search the bathroom. Cheryl was still out.

The medicine cabinet revealed a man’s razor, shaving gel, and a gift set of Armani deodorant and eau de toilette—Giò—which Ted was sure had never been used by Richie Rubiano. He had always exuded a more natural aroma. But a man had been here—and often enough to leave grooming supplies.

Ted heard Cheryl snort and gasp. He closed the cabinet and returned to the living room. She had pulled herself upright but looked only half-awake. Ted sat down facing her and waited until her eyes focused.

“Ah, Jesus,” she said. “Are you still here?”

“Feeling any better?” he asked. He avoided making eye contact with any of the porcelain heads behind her.

“Where’s that coffee?” she whined.

The mug was on the table in front of her. Ted let her find it on her own. She took a sip of the tepid brown liquid and winced. But she drank it.