Mira moved closer to him on the couch, close enough that she could smell the musky scent of his cologne, and before either of them could say anything to ruin the moment, she moved so her body was on top of his. She kissed him, a deep-throated kiss that held an unexpected urgency. She pressed her lips to his and her tongue tasted the lingering mint of his mouth. He kissed her back, and she felt the flutter in his chest, the wild, furious beating that mirrored her own. This response made her braver, and soon her hands were touching every part of him—the tender parts of his face, his cheeks, moving down to his chest and down farther to his pants, searching for the cool metal of his belt buckle.

“Mira—stop. I need you to stop.” Jesse coughed, his body becoming stiff, and Mira, embarrassed, quickly got up and moved to the other end of the couch. After she was off him Jesse reached for the nearest pillow and placed it in his lap, covering what was obvious to them both.

“I don’t understand,” Mira said, her voice low, almost a whisper.

“I wish you hadn’t come,” Jesse said. “Not like this. Not for all this.”

Mira, frustrated, stiffened in her seat, bracing herself in case Jesse said he would leave. He didn’t. He reached over to the coffee table for his glass of water and gulped it down, placed the glass back on the table, then took a napkin to his mouth. After he wiped his lips he balled the napkin up and threw it on the table with the plates of uneaten food. Mira watched him and waited. He couldn’t say what he had without some sort of explanation. She would wait until he gave it to her. Jesse sat on the edge of the couch, one foot tapping against the wood floor, a nervous tic she recognized. “Mira,” he said, so low that she almost hadn’t heard it at first. He gave a forced cough before meeting her face again, and then finally he asked what he’d been working himself up to say. “What do you remember about the Woodsmans?”

“The Woodsmans? I remember the stories people told. Gosh, there were so many.”

“There were,” Jesse said, nodding. “Like how Roman Woodsman used to have rape parties with slave women. I heard that one a lot.”

“Yes, I remember that one too. Or the one about his wife drinking slaves’ blood to make herself live longer. Or that they had a torture room somewhere in the house.”

“Everyone loved that story. I remember Michael Petrewski saying once how they tortured slaves and then when they died sold their bodies to pay off debts.”