“I didn’t.” Queenie stepped inside, her heels making no sound on the worn wooden floor. She was dressed in charcoal gray, every seam perfect, every button aligned. Her dark hair was swept into a low knot. “The door was open. And you’ve been staring at that lamp for ten minutes.”

They were partners. They were also, in ways neither fully admitted, something else.

“The third is the birthday party. The little girl is holding a cherry lollipop. Her knuckles are white.”