Chapter 6: Rule Two

That night Lark decided I needed a pie.

"You dropped yours on your family's carpet," she said. "I read the report. It's a crime scene. I'm replacing it."

"You don't have to."

"It's the day before Thanksgiving, Ellingwood. In this apartment, that's not optional."

She had a frozen crust, a can of pumpkin and a stove that ran hot on one side.

I sat on the counter and told her about Denver, the bridges and the crew who had adopted me.

She made fun of every sentence.

"Inspector," she said. "You climb under bridges and look for rust."

"Cracks."

"Rust with ambition."

I laughed so hard I had to put my hand on the cabinet.

It was the first time I'd laughed in two days.

She reached into the oven to turn the pan, and the back of her forearm touched the hot rack.

"Ow. Son of a-"

She jerked away and swore at the oven, at the pie and at me.

I got off the counter before I thought about it.

I took her wrist and put it under the cold tap, and held it there with both hands.

The red mark ran along the back of her forearm, from the wrist toward the elbow.

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