She is where I expect her—the master bedroom, or in other words, the only room with a functioning fireplace and a lock that resists the first twist.
I knock once, hear the drag of a chair leg, and wait.
The door opens a hand's width.
"I'm busy," she says.
I see the brush in her hand, the loosened braid over one shoulder, the embers painting her bare feet orange.
I push the door wider, step in with my boots wet and my coat dripping onto the rug.
She does not yield the threshold, so Istand just inside, smelling rain and hair oil and the ghost of her perfume.
"You shouldn't bar your door," I say.
"Makes it look like you're hiding."
She leans back against the jamb.
"Maybe I am."
I cross to the fire, pull off my coat, and hang it on the back of the chair.
It hisses as the heat hits it.
I watch her in the mirror above the mantel.
She is half a room away, still holding the brush, tapping it against her palm.
"I assume you're here because someone didn't like what I said at dinner," she says.
"No," I answer.
"I'm here because you've been in rooms you weren't invited into."
She laughs softly.
"Then lock your doors better."
The challenge is so naked, I almost smile.
Instead, I lean against the mantel, cross my arms, and stare her down.
The fire pops.
Shadows crawl up her legs, her hips, the hollow at her collarbone.
She sets the brush on the table.
"You want me to be scared."
"I want you to be honest."
She stands, walks to the window, pulls the curtain aside, and peers out at the blank, black garden.
"Honesty is a commodity," she says.
"You pay for it like anything else."
