“I actually think Cole’s idea that Marty start a bumper sticker company isn’t that bad. You think we could get him to fund it?”

He laughs, then he brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her fingers. “You’re not just telling me what I want to hear?”

“No.”

“OK. Will you keep being honest while I ask you something else?”

“Promise.”

“What if I asked Cole if I could . . .”

“If you could what?”

“Join the team. Or whatever you guys call it.”

Suddenly her right hand feels like he’s no longer holding it, even though he just took it in his own. After a few seconds, whatever expression’s on her face has brought a stony, distant one to his.

When his cell phone rings, they both jump. “It’s Mona,” he says.

He stands and walks to the other side of the yard. And after a moment or two, she realizes she’s still holding her hand in the air where he let it go, as if she’s reaching out to him across the yard.

She’s feeling too many things at once to give voice to any single one. But they all have one thing in common: they generate the kind of full-body flush she’s always associated with shame. A sense that she’d been suddenly exposed without her consent.

How many times will Luke be able to watch her trigger before he starts to see her as the woman with weapons for hands and not the woman sitting with him now, talking about feelings? How long before he’s assaulted by memories of her last hunt every time he tries to kiss her? Will his tenderness disappear? Will he start to touch her like she’s made of iron?

Watching her take down Pemberton was one thing. For starters, he wasn’t her boyfriend then. They hadn’t learned the feel of each other’s bodies, become familiar with the sounds of the way the other breathes while they sleep. But the first time he saw Zypraxon in action, he actually threw up. If he joins Cole’s team, if he watches her take down monster after monster, will he be able to reconcile both versions of her in his mind, his heart?

She’s far from sure, far enough to feel terror at the thought.

If Luke had seen me kill Richard Davies, would he still have helped me shave my head?

He’s walking toward her across the grass, pocketing his phone.

“Mona needs me to come in,” he says.

“Is everything all right?”

“It’s Edward,” he says.

“Her boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he’s . . . freaking out. He needs her to take care of him, but he doesn’t want her to see him this sick and so he’s been threatening to break up with her and . . . and anyway, the whole thing’s a mess and it’s been going on for days. He finally caved and asked her to come over, and with Henricks gone they’re going to be short tonight, and I don’t want to stop her, you know? The only sort of good thing about it is that it’s keeping her from digging into Lacey’s disappearance as much as she wants to.”

Neither of them say anything for a few long seconds. Neither of them’s comfortable with this definition of good, it seems.

“Figured I’d go in,” Luke finally says. “You know, since we’re not supposed to be doing much of anything except having our normal, comfortable lives.”

“Luke—”

“Listen, just forget what I said. I don’t know, maybe I just needed to say it out loud.”

“Luke—”

“I mean, you’re right. The Bailey thing. It’s getting to me. And Cole taking the flash drive . . . I just. Maybe I’m having a man tantrum.”

“A mantrum?”

She can’t remember a sound that soothed her as much as his laughter does now.

When he bends down and kisses her on the cheek, she feels like her heart’s beating at a healthy, steady pace for the first time in weeks.

“Check in,” she says.

“I will.”

He’s almost to the sliding back door when she says, “And be careful.”

“Do I need to be?” he asks. “Cole’s got eyes all over town.”

Luke waves both hands in the air as if a swarm of helicopters were circling above. Then he turns and drops his pants enough to flash his bare ass to the yard. Charlotte’s still laughing and trying to catch her breath when he slides the door shut behind him.

“No,” Marty says for the third time.

“What do you mean, no?” Charley asks.

It’s dark out, but they haven’t left the backyard. Charley assumes it’s the only part of the house that might be safe from digital eavesdroppers, even if it’s not the most pleasant spot at night. There’s always the twinkling view. But the new security lights on either side of the kitchen’s sliding glass door give off a harsh glare that ends just a few feet from the Adirondack chairs. She can barely make out Marty’s face, but if she glances over her shoulder, she’ll be blinded.

Just inside the half-open sliding door, her cell phone sits on the nearest counter. She’ll hear it if it rings, but hopefully it’s far enough away that Cole can’t use it to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Whatever, she thinks. For all we know, they probably put mics in the oak tree while we were sleeping.

“That’s the worst damn idea I’ve ever heard,” Marty says.