Chapter 10: The Inspection

The inspector was due at nine in the morning, and Imogen's bed looked like a showroom.

"It's too flat," Griffin said.

"It's ironed."

"That's the problem. Nobody has ever slept in an ironed bed. An inspector will know."

Imogen stood at the foot of it with her notebook open.

They had moved his things in after dinner.

His toothbrush stood in the cup beside hers. His hoodies hung in her closet, on the wooden hangers, squeezed in among the gray suits.

His red mug sat on her nightstand next to her gold pencil.

She had looked at it there for a long moment and said nothing.

"Try to mess it up," she said.

Griffin flopped onto the mattress face first, rolled twice, and sat up.

Imogen walked around, straightened a corner, and smoothed the pillow with the flat of her hand.

"That looks slept on by a cat."

"A cat is a living thing."

"A cat has no marital status."

He tried again. He bounced, kicked at the covers, and threw a pillow at the wall.

She picked it up, plumped it, and placed it back.

"Better," she said. "Now the sheet is wrinkled in one place. Real couples are wrinkled in several."

"How many?"

"Dozens, I believe."

She said it with a perfectly straight face.

Griffin laughed so hard he had to sit down on the edge of the bed.

"Imogen."

"Yes."

"We're going to have to do this properly."

She stood very still.

Her eyes went to his mouth and back up, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Rule three," she said. "No touching without a reason."

"What's the reason?"

"An inspector."

"She's not here until nine."

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