"Maybe I will." I took a sip of the bitter coffee.
"When you do, make me sound taller."
I snorted coffee through my nose, which made him laugh—that full-bodied sound I'd first heard at his family's dinner table. "I'll make you six-foot-four with bulging biceps if you want, even taller than Matthew."
"My actual biceps take offense to that suggestion." He flexed playfully.
"Your actual biceps are perfect. The rest of you isn't bad either."
I pulled him closer, coffee forgotten as we kissed with familiar heat. His hand curled around the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.
We had nowhere to be. Neither of us was tethered to a specific timetable.
Before we could leave the bedroom, our doorbell rang. When I padded to the door, it was the arrival of a package wrapped in plain brown paper with meticulous attention to the corners. There was no return address, but the Seattle postmark and the careful penmanship told me who'd sent it before I opened it.
Michael peered over my shoulder. "Another one from Cameron?"
I nodded, weighing the small parcel in my palm. "Third one in the last six months."
Our relationship with Lars Reeves' son had evolved in unexpected ways. What began as a single encounter on the courthouse steps developed into regular correspondence—emails, phone calls, and the exchange of carefully selected packages.
"What is it this time?" Michael followed me to the living room couch.
I unwrapped the paper carefully to reveal a small wooden box with an inlaid compass rose on its lid. Inside, nestled in velvet, was an antique brass compass—tarnished with age but still functional, its needle swinging decisively toward the north.
"There's a note." I unfolded the small card tucked beneath the compass.
Found this in a maritime shop in Port Townsend. Reminded me of our conversations about navigation through uncertain waters. Thought it belonged with you two. - CR
Michael lifted the compass, turning it over in his palm. "This is nineteenth century. Probably Norwegian craftsmanship."
"Your sudden expertise in nautical antiques is impressive."
"I've been reading those books on maritime history you keep leaving around."
I folded the brown paper in my lap. "We should invite him sometime soon. He mentioned attending that tech conference in Portland next month. That's not far."
Michael nodded thoughtfully. "I'd like that. He reminds me of his father—the version of Lars who tried to do the right thing at the end."
"I'll email him tomorrow. He might appreciate an escape from conference hotels."
"And some of Mrs. Yablonski's latest batch of blackberry cobbler."
I placed the compass box on a bookshelf, next to the small collection of treasures Cameron had sent over the months—a first-edition history of cryptography, a hand-carved chess piece from a Stockholm market, and a volcanic stone from the beach where his father had died.
While Michael prepared to set out for his day of treehouse construction, I settled into a worn armchair in our kitchen nook with my laptop. It hummed to life as I logged into the university portal. The title of a remote course I was teaching appeared on the screen: "Ethics in Practice: Transparency, Power, and Whistleblowing."
"Coffee refill?" Michael's voice drew my attention from the screen. He stood at the counter, pouring the remainder of the pot into his travel mug. He'd showered and changed into a well-worn sweatshirt bearing the faded emblem of the local volunteer fire department.
"I've had my caffeine allowance for the day. When was it you said you would be back from the Sullivan project?"
"Before dinner." He secured the lid on his mug. "Miles is calling at six, remember?"
"Right." I smiled. The youngest McCabe called us regularly. His private practice had boomed in the aftermath of the Asphodel revelations.
Michael approached, dropping a kiss on the crown of my head before heading toward the door. "Marjorie's cat got stuck in her rain gutter again. Might stop there first."
"Tell her she should invest in a ladder instead of relying on the neighborly SWAT officer."
