“I intend to perambulate about the block a bit more. The truth of what happened here may be on the concrete, or it may be in a window I have not yet looked through.”

Marta nodded. “And I’ll see you at the docks tomorrow to talk to the fortune-teller.”

“She is a seer, per her own annunciation. I hope she sees who killed our Mister Jones.” Benoit nodded at her, and then left their table.

“So, are you two fucking?”

She hadn’t seen him at first. He’d found a shadow to hide in; he wore one of his many pretentiously tattered expensive sweaters. She knew how much they cost now, because when you got rich, lots of people appeared to try to sell you things. Or to try to get you to give them money to turn into more money, because tens of millions weren’t enough. Ridiculous.

She had known he was paroled. She had known he might try to find her. She was thinking about his sweaters and her money because she didn’t want to face the truth: Ransom Drysdale standing in front of her in the dark bar a man had recently been killed in, staring at her like he wanted to bring the body count up to two.

Benoit had paid the bill, and tipped as generously as she knew he always did. She said, “No, of course not,” and stood to leave.

He moved in front of her, of course. He’d always been like that, using his body to intimidate and ignorant of the fact that he wasn’t at all special, that nearly all men tried this with nurses sooner or later. “Hi. Been awhile.”

“It’s been barely two years.” And even that had been clawed out of the courts by the prosecutor. The family hadn’t been lying; one murder and two attempted murders were small potatoes to lawyers who billed three thousand an hour.

“When you’re in jail, it feels like forever.”

“You were on house arrest, not in jail, and I don’t want to have this conversation anymore.” She moved to step around him; he moved to block her, his eyes still intent on her face.

“And yet I still thought of nothing but you.”

He meant, of course, that he thought of revenge. She said, “If you don’t let me pass, I’ll scream.”

“Because a man’s standing in front of you in a bar? Have you gone all dykey like my cousin?”

“Please don’t use that word.” She had made it clear to Meg that they didn’t need to speak for Meg to receive her allowance. And so, they didn’t speak anymore.

“So you’re for sure muff-diving, then. Incredible. I always knew you had a deviant buried underneath all that saintly patience.”

She wasn’t actually very patient, certainly not for people who weren’t directly under her care. She said, “Excuse me,” braced her feet like Alicia’s Taekwondo instructor had taught them, and shoved past him.

It worked. He stumbled back; he shouted, “I’ll see you again, Marta,” making her name sound like a dirty word; he didn’t stop her. She drove home and showered and went to bed, and only when she had done all of that - when she had confirmed her family was safe, the house secure - did she let herself notice her hands shaking, the tears pricking in her eyes.

===

It was ridiculous, Alicia told her. But she did still miss Harlan. His family had come to realize all his secrets slowly, but she’d known them pretty early on. He was still better than most of them; he had defended her to the end. That mattered, even if he’d been, by all accounts, a pretty shitty father.

She wanted to do better than he had. Alicia told her that was ridiculous, too. But Alicia had taken a bit of money from the estate for college and then flatly refused anything else, even after she’d dropped out and started touring with that band of hers. Marta was responsible for Alicia in a way she wasn’t for Walt or Linda or Joni, but Alicia didn’t need her in that way.

And neither did Ransom, she reminded herself. The allowance she gave Linda would cover him if they lived reasonably; he’d had his own trust fund, too, which the family assumed was depleted. Marta wasn’t so sure. A man who’d nearly gotten away with a really complex murder was not someone you wanted to underestimate.

Nor was the woman who’d stopped him. She checked all her locks five times that night. She didn’t live alone; at any given time, Harlan’s house had the housekeeper, Marta, three or four dogs, and her mother. But her mother had gone to bed early, at ten, and now at nearly midnight, Marta couldn’t sleep, her hands around one of Harlan’s knives.

The secret window had been barricaded long ago. Still she worried. But no one came; she slept soundly, and in the morning went to work on her writing.

===

“You’re a fucking poet now?”

None of Harlan’s children had keys to the mansion anymore. Marta hadn’t thought to account for lock-picks. She looked at Ransom standing in the doorway of her study. It had once been a child’s playroom, and Marta didn’t like to destroy perfectly good wallpaper: the walls were covered in clowns and dogs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t give me that shit. It took all of five minutes to figure out ‘Lyra Padilla’ was you. You’re really just like the rest of us, aren’t you? Using Harlan’s money to chase your conceited dreams.”

It wasn’t like that. Yes, she had used the extra time between cases to write, but she had written as a nurse, too. Half the women she’d worked with wrote, or sang, or painted. People like Ransom never understood that.

And it wasn’t her business to make him understand. “As I have said to your family, you are my welcome guests any time. But I must ask you to let me work.”

“Christ. You’re just like him, you know it? A withholding son-of-a-bitch in a hot little nurse’s body. No wonder he gave it all to you.”

“Ransom. Please leave, or I’ll call security.” Enhanced since Harlan’s death, with people even he wouldn’t have approved of. Never mind; reporters stayed away, now.

“Fuck you, fuck your security, and fuck this whole fucking house.” But he left, and he didn’t even slam the door.

===

She went for a walk just after Halloween. Harlan had never been one for exploring the grounds; he liked to have them, of course, but he hadn’t ever shown interest in them while Marta had been caring for him. But Marta loved them. She’d taught herself a bit about the trees, so she knew what to look for, colorful maples and drooping pines. It was lovely, peaceful.

Or, well, it normally was. Right now she was pinned against one of the few elms left in this part of the country, and Ransom was holding onto both her shoulders like he wanted to add to his body count.

“All I’m asking for is a couple million. I won’t even blow it all on coke like your sister does with her groupies. I’ll invest it, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

His breath was so warm on her face. His fingers bit into her shoulders. “Three million would barely produce a hundred thousand a year. You don’t want that kind of money. You want luxury.”

His eyes widened, nostrils flaring. He looked her up and down like she’d surprised him - like he was surprised she’d managed to surprise him. “Well, well. You’ve gone native after all. A hundred thousand’s just a pittance to you, now, is it?”

For herself, yes. To save her mother, to help her sister, to send to her abuela - no. But he didn’t need to know that. “I know it is to you, and that’s all that matters.”

He - laughed. Cruelly, leaning away from her - and then he leaned in again, his thigh pressing her legs apart, and she felt everything inside her freeze, and move, and want.

He leaned in, very close, until his lips brushed her ear. She thought for a moment of him listening to her back at that diner, years ago - of how badly she’d wanted someone to trust, someone to help her. He hadn’t really been that person even then. He definitely wasn’t now that she understood him a little better. But oh, she had wanted.

And she wanted again, panicked, helpless to stop it.

“I could kill you right here, and your fucking detective buddy wouldn’t save you,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. Her back was wet from the tree bark; the sky was a dull, dark gray, ready to sleet. “Everyone would know. You’d go to jail for real this time.”

He laughed, softly, so warm against her. She thought she could feel him aroused against her hip. “Over you? Nah.”

And then he stepped back. Held her hips, firm, so that when her feet touched the ground again, it was feather-light. She had no scrapes or bruises at all, no evidence of anything physical to return to the house with.

“Until later,” Ransom said, and left her there, heart pounding, legs trembling.

===

“I really think Ransom has a thing for you,” Alicia said when they met in Boston the night before her band was due to fly overseas.

“I don’t - want to talk about it,” Marta said, and stabbed her steak viciously. Two tables over, someone was taking pictures of them. They’d be on some gossip blog tomorrow. She didn’t want to talk about Ransom; she didn’t even want to think about him.

“Just be careful, okay? I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I,” Marta said.

===

It was true. It was. How could she trust him? He was a murderer, probably a real psychopath. Okay, she’d gone to school; she knew ‘psychopath’ wasn’t a real thing. But what people meant when they said it - they meant people like Ransom.

But Meg had lied to her, coldly, while they were all still grieving for Harlan. Joni had tried to slip her one of her new-age drugs last year the day before Thanksgiving, then told Marta she was just like family, then asked her for money. Linda had gotten drunk and accused her of sleeping with Harlan just last week. Walt’s kid was still a Nazi. And they were all, despite her support of them, still suing her in civil court for what they thought were their shares of Harlan’s fortune.

Ransom was suing her too. He’d probably kill her if he thought it would benefit him. But he was, at least, honest about that. When he’d been caught, he’d fessed up; he hadn’t made excuses or tried to pretend his actions were righteous.

So, maybe she didn’t trust him to be decent. But she definitely trusted him to be honest. Since he’d been arrested, he had been scrupulously terrible to her, exactly as he wanted to be.

===

“Marta,” Benoit said, “I’m beginning to suspect our Mister Jones may have been embroiled in a scheme.”

“It does seem likely,” Marta said, staring at the Federal Reserve gold bars stacked along the wall of Montana Jones’ cousin’s Greek restaurant’s walk-in freezer.

“But why? Why steal gold? Why freeze gold? Money Mister Jones had, prestige, attention - why engage in such pedestrian theft? Was the man simply impassioned of gold? Was he imperiled by exterior forces? What sort of scheme requires gold? Was he -”

Marta’s phone started ringing. She stepped away, leaving Benoit to his musings.

“Marta, please come home. There are police here; they say we have guns and plan to kill the Thrombeys.”

===

An hour later, she sat with her mother in the living room, numb. The police had long since gone; they liked Marta, and she suspected Benoit had done some kind of weight-throwing to ensure they wouldn’t ask too many questions about her mother while the lawyers did their work. But the call had reminded her and her mother about just how precarious things were - even with sixty million, even with a big old house full of knives. Always.

“Was it one of them?” her mother said.

“Probably.” Almost certainly - and she could guess who. He had practically announced his intent to hurt her in the hallway of her family’s old apartment. Thumping his cane, looking at her with bloodshot eyes - and his son was a Nazi online, which meant this sort of underhanded tactic was exactly his style.

She clenched her hands together in her lap. She would call the lawyers. She would ask that they inquire who’d made the call. It was illegal, it should be investigated; Marta had power, now, to force that much. Investigation. Harassment.

But part of her knew it wouldn’t fix anything, not really. The family wanted their entitlement. The fact that she ensured they were all cared for didn’t matter. They hated her for her incursion, for having a family she cared about, for keeping it all.

“I wish you could stop fighting them,” her mother said.

“I do too. But if I do -”

“I know. They wouldn’t even let you leave them the money.”

No. Harlan’s fortune had grown, but so had Marta’s own fortunes, from work with Benoit and her poetry. They’d want that, too, as rent for living in Harlan’s house, or restitution for their emotional pain. There was no way out but through.

“We’ll deal with it,” Marta said. She took her mother’s hand, squeezed it. “I’ll deal with it.”

===

She was dealing with it: she had called the lawyers, she had called the police detective, she had asked security to create systems of record-keeping that would serve as evidence that no one in her family had any intention of murder, or guns to do it with. She was handling it.

She was just also crying in her office, a bit, from the stress of it all.

“Wow,” said Ransom from the doorway.

She looked up at him. She’d found her desk at a rummage sale years ago and had brought it with her from the old apartment. It was solid wood, but it wasn’t tall. Maybe she should put it on a platform. “Leave me alone, please.”

“And even in the midst of agony caused by my own uncle, she says please. Cute.”

She looked down at her desk and thought about calling security.

“You look like shit. You know it was Walt, right?”

“Yes. Yes, I know it was Walt.”

“Hm. Want me to take care of it for you?”

She heard the implication: he still wanted more money. He wouldn’t be here, talking to her, half leashing his horrible personality, except for the money. “No, thank you.”

“Want me to go on the dark web and hire someone to take care of it for you?”

“No! Why would you even say that!” He was laughing, because of course he was. She stood up in spite of herself, practically vibrating from fury. It didn’t make her taller than him; she regretted it instantly, as he caught her gaze and leaned in a little too close.

“You know, they say power corrupts, but you…I can’t imagine it corrupting you.” Again the once-over as he leaned in, placing his hands on either side of hers, flat on the desk. If he wanted to, he could hold her here. He’d kill her before security even realized anything was wrong.

She straightened her spine. “Get out, Ransom. You’re not getting any money from this, and if you try this again, I’ll have you banned from the premises. You know I can do it.”

He straighted up and walked towards the door. “Sure. I’m the only member of my shit-fuck family who thinks it’d be the right thing to do, too. But you know what else?” He paused, turning back to her, and threw her a wink. “I know you won’t.”

Before she could shout at him, or respond at all really, he was gone.

===

She got the news about Walt three days later.

He had fallen. The stairs at his Upper East Side townhome were steep and unforgiving, and he’d tripped late at night and gone flying. No one had seen or heard anything, though Jacob was under investigation since his phone revealed he talked constantly about wanting to kill his father.

haha wow i cant believe i have something in common w a nazi xx had been Alicia’s response, texted right before she got onstage in Kiev.

She hadn’t seemed to think there was anything fishy about it. But then, she didn’t know the family as well as Marta did. If she was right, she’d be confronted with the truth soon enough. Consequently, Marta waited, working in her study and listening to her Alicia’s new single.

On repeat number thirty-six, Ransom knocked on her door. “Afternoon, matriarch.”

She couldn’t hide a shudder. “Don’t call me that, please.”

“Hm, but we all come to you for money; you tell us what to do. There’s only a few other words for that kind of relationship.”

She crossed her arms, hating how defensive he could make her feel. As if other men hadn’t stared at her breasts or made ridiculous comments. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

“I know what you did, anyway.”

“Do you?”

“You killed your uncle.”

For a moment he only looked at her, his blue eyes so intent that she felt trapped. Then he laughed. “Is that so.”

“You knew what he did; you knew it bothered me.”

“Is that what you call being terrorized in your own home? Bothered?”

“You’re bothering me right now,” she shot back. “And you want money, you want me to like you. Ransom, I’m not going to like you if you kill people.”

“I didn’t just kill him, Marta. I killed him for you. I told you I’d be useful, and now I have.”

It felt absurd; it was absurd. She ought to call the police. But she already knew Ransom would have an airtight alibi and she’d be accused of harassing someone on the opposite side of the inheritance case. “I didn’t want him to die!”

Somehow, impossibly, that was what made rage spread across his face. “You’re really something else, you know that? He tried to get your mother killed!”

“So, what, an eye for an eye? That’s how you want to live?”

“Sixty million and three times that in residuals, baby, that’s how you have to live.”

They were nose to nose. She hadn’t realized, had moved without thinking, had been so focused on his gaze that she hadn’t registered him moving close. She jerked away, back into her seat, and he leaned in further, never looking away.

“You think you’re separate from this, just because you write paychecks to charity, because you haven’t taken over his study? You think you can keep your hands clean? Your hands were dirty the moment you decided to keep the money, and we both know it.” He circled the desk, standing over her. She clenched the arms of her office chair.

“Ransom -”

“I’m not done. My family are soul-sucking scum-feeding assholes, and you know the funniest part? They all think they’re a fucking prize. I know you know it. I barely remember you hanging around the edges of our parties, except when someone brings you in like a fucking marionette doll to ask you about immigration or the working class or what the fuck ever.”

No one had ever asked her about the working class; they were very focused on her origins and just as ignorant about them. She said, “What’s your point?”

“You’re never going to be rid of them. You can’t be. And they’ll keep telling you they’re your friends, and it will be bull-fucking-shit every time.”

“You’re one of them, Ransom.”

He laughed. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Marta. I’m not. If I sell you out, you’ll know it. If I stab you, you’ll see me twist the knife.” He dropped to his knees. His knees. In front of her, on the floor, behind the desk. It was a wide desk; no one in the hall would see him. But -

“I’m not your friend, Marta. But you can’t get rid of them; I can.” He placed a hand on her knee. “Let me do it for you.”

She couldn’t form words. Her throat was closed up. She shook her head instead.

“What if I do it anyway?”

“Don’t,” she said, the words made harsh by how close she was to crying.

He actually smiled, like this was some kind of game. Like he thought he might comfort her. “Telling me what to do now, Marta? Sorry. I only listen to people who pay me.”

She flinched. And -

And.

She was wearing a skirt. It hadn’t seemed important two minutes ago. But now he put her hand on her knee - now he moved it up, finger skimming over her thigh.

“Tell me what I should do with this, Marta.”

“I was telling you what not to do.” But her voice was weak, unconvincing even to herself. She was furious and tired and scared, and she was still angry with him for pretending to be kind two years ago, and his hands were so warm on her legs.

“So tell me not to do this.” He reached forward, pushed her skirt up. Let his fingertips skim the edges of her underwear.

“I -”

“Tell me to stop, and I will.”

She knew he didn’t mean the murder. He was still looking at her; he wouldn’t look away, even when he reached forward and pulled her underwear down, one hand closing around her ankle to free her leg completely.

“You’ll have to deal with it sooner or later,” he said, and pressed a finger inside.

It felt incredible, thick and perfect. But - “Stop.”

He froze, and she thought: oh.

It was like someone else had control over her body. She reached out and grabbed his head, digging her fingernails into his skull. She said, “If you’re going to do this, you should start with your mouth. That way I don’t have to listen to you.”

She thought he might leave. Instead, his shoulders dropped and he sort of - shook, a little, like she’d slapped him.

God, she wanted to slap him.

He leaned in, moving with the pressure of her hand. His shoulders forced her legs further apart. She could only touch him with one hand; she had to hold on to the chair with the other. Her back already felt strange from the effort she was expending to keep upright, to look normal. And even then, if anyone saw, it would be completely obvious what they were doing. Mama was out and wouldn’t be back for hours, but -

“Fuck, I hope someone catches us,” he said, and leaned in, biting her thigh.

She bit her lip to keep from moving noise. “That’s not what I want.”

“I know what you want, sweetheart.” He said it so dismissively. Marta wanted to be turned off. Instead, she just wanted. When he touched her again, fingers spreading her wide so he could lick her clit, she gave up on pretense and let her head fall back.

“Hard to pay the bills if I’m down here to distract you? Poor Marta.” Another lick. She let her hand slide down, feeling his neck, his shoulders. They were so broad; he was so big, the product of expensive gyms and a personal chef. She dug her nails into his muscle and bit back a smile when he hissed against her.

“You think you can do this? Steal our shit, fuck me like you’re some Harvard coed and not a nobody nurse from the wrong side of town? You think you’re anything to any of us?”

He’d stopped, his fingers frozen on her. She looked down at him, at the feverish expression on his face, and she understood what she needed to do.

The slap landed perfectly, sending his head whipping back. He moaned, leaning into it, then fell forward again and stopped talking. This time he pushed a finger in again, fucking her as he licked her clit, rubbing his thumb over her hip and then reaching up to her breasts, finding them under her blouse and pinching her nipples. It was all too much, too fast; it was perfect. All she could do was dig her heels in and try not to make too many embarrassing sounds - but even that was futile, because she could smell herself and hear herself, horrible wet noises filling the air. She felt like she was on fire.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered. “Marta. Tell me.”

“I want you to give it to me,” she said. “Harder, do it, right now.”

Later, she’d look back with horror; who had she been in those moments? Why had she done it? But now -

Now.

He fucked her with his fingers. He ate her out like he might die in the attempt. And she felt him moving his own hips, his tension, how much he wanted it. He’d lay her out on the desk and fuck her right now if she told him to. He’d do anything. It couldn’t be a good thing - it was, in fact, very bad. But the thought sent her right over the edge anyway, biting down on a scream.

She came back to her senses to find him watching her, still on his knees. There was something horrible and knowing in his expression.

“I won’t touch Joni or Meg. Not even Dad.” His fingers smoothed her skirt down. Her underwear was still on the floor; she sat up and felt the strange way her wet thighs rubbed against each other. Ransom’s mouth matched it, slick and shiny. “Not until you tell me to.”

And then he left.

===

She didn’t let herself reconsider it. With her underwear still sitting there on the floor, she wrote an addendum to the allowances, carving out money just for Ransom. She sent it off to her lawyer, grabbed her underwear, ran upstairs, and showered until she could stop crying.

===

Marta spent Thanksgiving at the housing first organization she’d given a large part of the Thrombey fortune to, eating dinner with her mother and some of the residents. The Thrombeys were using the estate, but she’d asked them to leave by nine, when she and Mama would be back.

They were all gathered together in the entry when she got home.

“Go upstairs,” Marta told her mother. “I’ll deal with this.”

“Stop speaking Portuguese! I know you’re talking about me!” Joni said.

“Jesus, Joni, get a Duolingo account, she was speaking Spanish,” Ransom said.

She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She felt tingles down her spine just thinking about it.

When her mother had gone upstairs, Marta said, “I asked you to leave before I came home. Please leave now.”

Linda laughed. “Or, what, you’ll sue us? With what money? You gave it all away, you little whore.”

“Ma, don’t call the owner of the house we’re standing in a whore.”

“I didn’t give it all away.” Her heart was pounding, but she knew the truth would come out eventually. And she knew the numbers, of course, very well. “I gave away what I’ll never use, what you’ll all never use. There’s plenty left over, plus the house. And of course, the publishing business. There is plenty.”

“We should just get rid of her. Throw her out,” Richard said.

“Oh, wow, good idea,” Ransom said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

She felt her insides turn to ice.

“Get the fuck out,” he added, and grabbed his parents by the collar.

What followed was chaos. Ransom tossed them, really threw them out. Then, over the shouting, he did the same thing to Joni and Meg, and then finally to Jacob, shattering his phone in the process. Marta watched with her hands over her mouth, knowing she should stop it but utterly unwilling to do so.

And then Ransom closed the front door and locked it, turning to Marta.

“Thanks for the check,” he said.

Something horrible twisted in her chest. “I didn’t do it for that.”

“For what?”

“That. Kicking them out.”

“That, I’d do for free.” He was moving towards her again, and she was unable to make herself stop him. Again. “Did you see the look on Dad’s face? I’m going to jerk off that.”

“Oh my God.”

“Guess what else I jerked off to?”

She shook her head furiously, so hard she got dizzy. “No. No, absolutely not. We are - you’re my dependent.”

“Hey, I haven’t even cashed the check yet.”

“It’s the principle of it! It’s wrong!”

Ransom stopped in front of her. They weren’t touching, but they were close enough that she could feel, again, the warmth of him. The sheer size. She wanted to take him up on his offer so badly, and she hated herself for it.

“You really believe that,” he said quietly, searching her gaze.

“Yes.”

“Fuck, Blanc wasn’t kidding. Fine. Have a good night, Marta.”

And then, like flipping a switch, he was gone.

Two days later, she sat down across from her mother for breakfast. She looked down at her eggs and then up at Marta, and she said, “Mija, what are you doing?”

“I’m eating breakfast.”

“With the boy. Harlan’s grandson.”

Ensuring you never have to learn their names, Marta didn’t say. “I just…had a little slip-up, that’s all. I got confused. It’s nothing you need to worry about, Mama, I promise.”

“Too late,” her mother said, smiling a little. She patted Marta’s hand, though, and went back to eating.

===

Marta clenched her hands together behind the chair she’d been tied to. “You’re not going to get away with this. I already texted Detective Blanc. He knows it’s you.”

“Everyone knows it’s me,” snarled Montana Jones’ cousin. “My own fucking mother knows it’s me, you know what I told her? Keep quiet, bitch, unless you want me to treat you like saganaki and light you on fire.”

“That seems like an unnecessarily harsh metaphor.” One more inch. She was so close to being free. “And I still don’t understand why you’d kill your cousin. Just give him his cut of the robbery.”

“Oh, you’re consulting on criminal money management now? I guess you’d know, being the gold digger who got the Thrombey fortune.”

There. She leaped up and threw the chair at her kidnapper, running out of the warehouse. Her car, newly repaired, was just a block down, and she sprinted to it and drove home as she called Benoit.

By the time the police arrived, the cousin was gone. And he was right; they didn’t really have any proof. But of course he’d just confessed to her, and she was a witness that the police trusted now. They’d arrest him when they found him.

In the meantime, she’d need to tell Leonard, her head of security, that someone might try to infiltrate the premises. She was typing up the email on her phone when she ran right into someone standing in the hallway that led to her bedroom.

She bounced off him; he caught her. She knew it was Ransom before she looked up.

“I don’t want you here. Leave now, please.”

He tilted his head, examining her like you might a piece of furniture you thought the delivery men had dinged up. “No, I don’t think I will. Someone’s trying to kill you.”

“Is it you?”

“Of course not. I told you I wouldn’t.”

“You lied to me before.”

“And you’re still mad about it, a feat of moral clarity I can barely comprehend.” He shook his head. “Relax; I’m not planning on spending time with you. I am planning on being here. Some Greek lunatic comes at you with a knife, your mom’s not going to be able to stop him.”

Inanely, absurdly, she said: “He’s Italian, actually.”

“Truly, diversity is the strength of America. Sleep tight.” He brushed past her, leaving like he really did have every intention of ignoring her.

She still didn’t believe him. Why should she? He was a liar, an obsessive one. She’d have been a fool to take anything he said at face value.

And yet, that night, lying awake in her bed and jumping at every little noise, she thought: let me do it for you. He had promised her that he’d honestly screw her over, if he did it at all. She wanted to believe him.

She closed her eyes, remembering the way he’d watched her, how his hands had begun to shake when she’d told him to fuck her. God. God. She wanted to believe him, but she also just wanted him.

He couldn’t see her here. There was nothing stopping her from reaching down, her fingers sliding over the top of her underwear, pressing hard where she wanted it. No one had to know that she pushed them down, rubbed her fingers over herself, nothing like how he’d felt but good enough for this: memory and imagination, thinking of what she’d have done if he’d fucked her - if he’d stayed down there on his knees until she was ready to go again, and pulled her back onto his mouth - if she’d touched him, jerked him off and watched him come -

She was so wet already. She ached, she wanted it so badly. It had been a long time since she’d been in a relationship, because of all the complications the Thrombeys had brought into her life. The grief had eventually turned into a kind of numb determination to do the right thing, and even that had been transmuting, recently, into peace and gratitude for all she’d managed to save.

But.

She ached and she wanted to scream. That part hadn’t gone away. She wanted, and wanted, and wanted, and now alone in her bedroom in her house she let herself think of it: forcing Ransom down onto the bed, straddling his head and fucking his face. Riding him, pinching him, slapping him. Tying him up and not letting him come, God, for hours, while she wrote and sent out checks to his terrible family. Telling him he was awful, a liar and a murderer, and telling him not to do anything without her permission.

Ransom obeying her, eager, with that same too-focused look he’d worn when she’d slapped him, when he’d tried to stab her.

She came like that, thinking of him, and she’d barely finished twitching when the guilt settled in. God, what was wrong with her? What was she doing? Was she - what, grateful, for this?

No. She wasn’t grateful. She wasn’t anything, when it came to Ransom; she felt nothing. She would do nothing.

She only wished she could believe herself.

===

Much to her shock, Ransom didn’t really bother her after that.

Oh, he stayed in the house, and that much was certainly annoying. It bothered her to know that if she went into the kitchen at 10:30 at night, he’d be there, drinking Scotch and cracking jokes about her pajamas. She hated knowing that if she grabbed lunch right around 1, he’d be sitting in the dining room, his eyes lazily following her movements.

But he didn’t really bother her, and he definitely didn’t try to kill her. She heard from Leonard that he’d discovered they were all ex-cons and thought himself enormously smart for uncovering what she, Marta, had clearly missed; but Leonard had also told her that when he’d reiterated their dedication to their employer, Ransom had listened and offered his help. Fine. That was what any half-decent person would do, which meant Ransom had very briefly been fighting above his weight class. It didn’t mean anything.

After a week or so, though, she was more or less used to his presence. She returned to her usual routine, sitting out on the balcony she and Harlan had spent most afternoons on and writing.

Poetry had always been something she loved, but she’d never had so much time to spend on it before inheriting the house. Sure, training as a PI took up plenty of time, but it also gave her material, and Benoit had interesting recommendations of his own. And during the time she wasn’t sleuthing, she had this: the breeze, a balcony, and time with her thoughts.

It was heaven, and it meant she had a lot more time to study the form and second-guess herself.

“You look miserable. Your shit’s good, you know, if you like poetry. Which I don’t.”

She watched Ransom seat himself opposite her, overwhelmed with weary inevitability. “If I ask you to leave, will you?”

“The balcony or the house?”

“Both. Either.”

He wasn’t just looking at her; her was watching her. The poem she held in front of her was a half-finished attempt to articulate the difference. She still wasn’t sure of it; she never felt the difference as strongly as when he was with her. In that sense, perhaps him being here was a good thing.

Or maybe becoming rich had just given her an unfortunate love of playing with fire.

“I would if you told me to, but you know that’s a stupid idea, since there’s a murderer out there who wants to kill you.”

“Ransom, you’re a murderer.”

He gave her fingerguns. “But I don’t want to kill you.”

She hated that she believed him. Still: “I can’t concentrate when you’re here.”

“Why, because you wanna fuck so bad?”

“Oh my God.” She moved to gather her things. Her bedroom had a lock, she could just - she could write there. She could have the room expanded, it could certainly be accommodated by the budget.

“Hey. Wait.” He reached out, not touching her but touching near her, his hand flat on the table. “I really did just come out here to - hang. I used to sit out here with him. It’s a nice spot. Okay?”

How much of that was true? But if he wanted to kill her, he’d be stupidly lunging at her; she knew that from experience. “Fine.” She went back to her writing.

Or, she tried. But she couldn’t concentrate. Every time she looked up, he was looking away: staring into the distance, or fiddling with his phone. She never caught him so much as glancing at her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching her.

She didn’t finish her poem. But she did start another one, about walking down a hill, slipping in mud and fearing you might fall.

===

Three weeks and they still hadn’t caught the killer.

Benoit had bowed out and advised her to do the same. The way he saw it, his job was done; they all knew who’d done it. It was the police’s job to catch him. Marta understood, but she also felt a little, well, insane. The man planned to kill her, after all. It was hard to relax, hard to sleep.

And somehow, Ransom being at the house…wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to her.

Was he irritating? Yes. Did she trust him? Absolutely not. But his hovering, his - need to protect her. His willingness to do as she asked, provided it didn’t include leaving the house -

It all added up to be something slightly more than nothing, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Ransom,” she said one day, “Please go pick up the study. My sister’s friend came over and left books strewn everywhere.”

And instead of asking her where the fuck the housekeeper was, he went.

“Ransom,” she said the next day, “Joni’s asking for an increase in her allowance.”

“Cut the scammer off.”

“I did promise not to.”

“So?”

“So, Meg’s still in school.”

Ransom snorted and turned a page of his book. “Meg’s a hypocritical little bitch.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong. But - “Please write to Joni and tell her that her allowance will increase with inflation, and that’s it.”

“Sure,” he said, and set the book aside to pick up his laptop.

She worried she needed a psychologist, or maybe an exorcism. It just felt so wrong. They weren’t doing anything terrible or deviant right now, of course, but in the abstract, Ransom was a murderer several times over. He had no morals, no lines, aside from the frankly weird way he kept asking her for permission to kill people.

For example: “I could just find him and kill him,” Ransom said one day.

“I’m sorry - who?”

“The killer. The police can’t B&E, they only have Blanc’s hunch and no real grounds for a warrant, so they’re stuck waiting, but they know where he is, more or less. I could take care of him for you.”

“I don’t want you to do that,” she said, and that was that.

Or, she thought it was, until the day Ransom came into her office and placed her check from two months ago on the table.

“I haven’t deposited this.”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t want to deposit it,” he said, and stopped, watching her. Waiting.

She felt horribly frustrated. Waiting for what?

“If you want that Italian bastard dead, just say the word.”

“I will never tell you to kill someone. And anyway, he was arrested yesterday.”

“Good for him. What about maiming?”

“Ransom -”

“You said it was unethical, so I didn’t take the money. Come on, Marta, you’re not as stupid as the rest of them. You know I have money of my own.”

“I know you love to break the law and gamble. You have expensive hobbies, Ransom.” She stood. “It’s late. I’m going to bed.”

He watched her. When she left, he followed her. And Marta -

Marta didn’t tell him to stop.

She walked upstairs, two flights. She went into the master bathroom. She brushed her teeth and washed her face. When she got back to the bedroom, she saw him standing there. She’d left the door to the hallway ajar; he had closed it.

They stared at each other across the bed. She knew what he wanted, and she knew he’d leave if she told him to.

She knew he wanted, more than anything - maybe more than he wanted to hurt another person - to do what she told him to.

“Ransom. Take your clothes off.”

His shoulders dropped. He pulled his shirt off, then his pants, then his underwear. He stood naked on the other side of the bed. His hands flexed at his sides; he was so hard, undeniably so, turned on just from this weird interplay.

In other words, he was gorgeous. She hadn’t been rich long enough to be jaded about that kind of thing. He was horrible, and he was beautiful.

And he was, by his own confession - by his own making - hers.

“Lie down on the bed.”

He lay down, arms at his sides. Not quite what she wanted. “Hands above your head.”

He obeyed.

For a terrible moment, she thought of other options. What might he do if she held a gun to his head? What would he do if she told him to chase her, to catch her? To hurt her?

Never mind all that. “Kiss me,” she told him, and sat down on the bed.

He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly. Every movement spoke of desperation. When she touched him, she felt sweat at his temples. When he paused to suck at her jaw, she felt how ragged his breathing was.

“Take my clothes off.”

He did, still lying on his back. First her shirt and her bra - and he was distracted by her breasts, reaching out to them before she said, “Ransom,” as sharply as she could.

He had killed people. He had killed Fran, someone who never deserved it. He was a terrible person with no conscience, and as long as she held him here, as long as he was hers, he wouldn’t hurt anyone she didn’t want him to.

God. God.

“Touch me,” she said when he’d gotten her naked. She straddled him, his cock pressing against her stomach. She kissed him, bit his lip, dug her nails into his neck. When he gasped into the kiss, she smiled and thrust her hips, savoring the almost-whimper he let out.

It didn’t feel like anything she’d ever done before. It felt dirty, wrong. And yet -

“Ransom,” she said, sinking down on him. He was hot and hard and totally frozen, lying prone on the bed and staring up at her. “Do you want to kill your mother?”

She felt him move inside her, involuntary. Oh, God. “You know I do,” he said through gritted teeth.

At a loss for what else to do, she bore down on him, squeezing him and feeling him move against her, pressing in exactly the right places. “I won’t allow you to kill anyone else in your family.”

He heard the clause, the getaway hatch. He moaned and clutched her hips, exposing his throat.

She wanted to bite it. She wanted to scrape up his skin. She wanted, desperately, to wreck him.

“Tell me you won’t kill anyone else.”

“I won’t kill anyone else,” he said, and she rewarded him with movement, rising and falling slowly, pushing down her own desperate urge for more, faster.

“Unless?”

“Fuck. Marta -”

She held herself very still, placing her own hands on her breasts, pinching her nipples. The movement sent little bolts of need through her; she knew he felt them. He opened his eyes and stared at her, looking feverish.

“Unless, Ransom,” she said, almost gently.

“Unless you ask me to,” he said, all in a single quiet breath. “Fuck, Marta, fuck, I’m not going to hurt anyone else unless you want me to - unless you tell me to - Jesus Christ. I won’t. I swear I won’t. Just -”

“Ransom,” she said again. Still gentle. She had to be so careful with this.

“Marta -”

“Fuck me. As hard as you can from here,” she said.

And he obeyed. He obeyed beautifully. He held her hips and fucked her hard, kept the rhythm when she gasped and moaned, changed the angle when she said “No, no, there.” And when she reached down to finger herself, wanting more, he knocked her hand away and did it himself - and she told him to fix his pressure, to move his finger, and every time he did exactly what she wanted.

She didn’t come. Not for too long. He was so big and fucking her perfectly, and she ached head to toe; he held onto her arm with bruising strength, he bit her neck and pinched her nipples, and still she didn’t come. She wanted it to last forever - she couldn’t imagine feeling this good again.

Until he pressed her down, burying himself in her, and said, “Marta, sweetheart, I can’t - I need to. Marta, please.”

And she realized he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t give up, until she told him to.

She held his face in a brutal grip. She kissed him slowly, almost tenderly. It wasn’t a nice kiss; it was a kiss of claiming, of ownership. He moaned into it. His grip slackened; his shoulders moved back again.

He was hers.

“Make me come, Ransom,” she said, and moved his hand to her clit.

Moments later, that was it; she spiraled out of control, biting back a shout as she clenched around him. When she saw him watching her, she said, “You too, come on,” and his face did something strange, closed off and too-open at the same time. He held onto her as he came, his face in her neck, and she thought - he was a monster, a horrible person. But she thought he might have felt something similar to her, in that moment. A reflected need, a redoubled interest.

Unless you ask me to.

“Ransom,” she said, stroking his face as he came down from it. It was so strange to be here, sitting on his lap, holding herself up. She could do anything here. “I want you to go to the bathroom and get us some water. Then I want you to come back, and hold me. And if you say anything shitty about cuddling, I’ll send you to spend a week on the Motel 8. Okay?”

He closed his eyes. His muscles flexed, like he was fighting with himself. She watched him, oddly curious, but not afraid.

“Yes, Marta,” he said. “Yes. Okay.”

He got out of bed, and he did exactly as he was told.

===

“Marta, I need to ask you a question, and I must request that you not lie. I won’t present you with a vessel in which to hide your sins, should you decide otherwise.”

She frowned at Benoit. “What’s wrong?”

“Ransom…Drysdale.”

Marta looked into her coffee. Had she expected this? She supposed in some ways, yes. “Yes, we’re - well, I guess we’re sleeping together. I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing to me for?”

“Mentioning sex?” The Detective wasn’t exactly a sensual sort, Marta had long since learned.

“Marta, I have my own arch-nemesis. He is powerful and he is unafraid of my moral compass, and on occasion, I do set aside my obligations and allow myself to enjoy duplicitous carnal delights with him.”

Marta blinked. And then, lacking anything better to do, she blinked again.

“But I don’t want you to be hurt. I would be most discomfited if my first detective apprentice were to be murdered by a trust fund baby.”

Yesterday, Ransom had bent over the kitchen counter and eaten her out, and then she’d made him beg her to let him jerk himself off. Even remembering it made her feel hot and trembly. “I don’t…think that’s a concern. Um. right now.”

“Oh, my,” Benoit said. “Oh…my.”

She took a huge drink of her coffee. “Yes.”

“Well. Then. In that case. How much do you know about the blue-tailed skink?”

“Um, not much? You’re talking about a lizard, right?”

“Indeed. Five thousand and thirty-three juveniles ate a carnival worker last night, and we have only his pinky finger to go on.”

“Are you joking?”

“I am deadly serious, Marta. And his pinky finger has another problem, you see. At the center of it is bone. The rest is surrounded by solid gold.”

Ransom, Marta knew, was at home, pursuing a useless hobby and likely planning his next semi-legal rout of whoever he saw as their enemies. Mama was visiting Marta’s abuela. In other words, Marta was at loose ends, free to pursue what interested her most.

She took another sip of coffee and set it down. She turned to Benoit.

“How would he even bend a finger made of mostly gold?”

And they were off.