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The house smells like eucalyptus and fake vanilla.

She’s in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring wine with one hand and scrolling her phone with the other.When she looks up, she doesn’t scream.

“I always knew I’d die in a robe,” she says.“Just hoped it’d be cashmere.”

She doesn’t run, but her fingers twitch like they’re used to finding panic buttons.She lifts her glass instead.“Please tell me you’re not another podcast fan.”

I don’t answer.

She studies my face, then smiles slow, like she’s playing a part she cast herself in.

“God, I always wanted to be the girl in a home invasion.Not the rape-y kind.Just the one that gets duct-taped to a chair while the stranger rifles through her trauma.”

She raises her glass.“Cheers.”

I move closer.No hesitation.“Where is she?”

She tilts her head.“You’ll have to be more specific.I’m terrible with pronouns.”

“Marlowe.”

She exhales through her nose, annoyed.Like I’ve tracked dirt in.

“She always did attract the wrong kind of attention,” she says.“Should’ve known eventually one of you would find me.”

“Just answer the question.I’m not looking for a story.”

“No?Drama in a sundress.It always circles back.”

“Where is she?”

She shrugs, too slow to be casual.“I don’t keep tabs.She’s like mold.Shows up, ruins things, disappears.”

“Give me the address.”

“That’s a terrible idea.For both of us.”She sips her wine.“You’re not here to kill me, are you?Because if so, let’s skip the speech.I’ve had a long day.”

“That address, Rachel.”

She leans against the counter, unconcerned.“What if I say no?”

I lift my jacket just enough to show what I’m carrying.She sees it.Doesn’t react.

“You’re cute when you threaten murder.But if you kill me, you’ll never find her.”

“If you stall, I’ll do worse.”

That gets her attention.Her mouth tightens, just slightly.She finishes her wine, sets the glass down like a toast to bad decisions, and slips on a pair of shoes by the door.

“Fine,” she says.“But I want a good seat.”

“This isn’t a show.”

She laughs.“Everything’s a show.That’s what you don’t get.Marlowe doesn’t want to be saved.She wants to burn slow so someone will watch.And you?—”

She jabs a finger at my chest as she passes.“—are exactly the kind of man who stares at fire.”

I follow her outside.