Express Male. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      THE EASTERN SKY was stained with orange and gold by the time Lila directed Noah to an older section of Cleveland and a neighborhood of tidy homes built between the two world wars. The driveway into which she told him to turn belonged to a red-brick bungalow whose porch spanned the front of the house, and whose broad front windows sported window boxes awaiting spring planting. Terra-cotta pots, likewise empty of flowers this time of year, lined the concrete shelf wrapping the porch and a white wicker swing hung at one end. A quartet of hanging Boston ferns dotted the front, suggesting the owner had been impatient for something to grow, and yellow bug lamps glowed on each side of the front door.

      Noah wondered who lived here and why Lila was pretending it was her. She could no more nurture plants—or feel comfortable in such a blatantly cozy house—than he could. He hoped she didn’t try to go inside. It would be difficult to explain the situation to the owners.

      “Thanks for driving me home,” she said from the passenger seat as he dropped her car keys into her hand.

      “You’re sure you have a ride coming?”

      “I’m sure they’re right behind us,” he lied.

      “Well…thanks again,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I appreciate it.”

      She sounded exhausted, which he was certain she was after being interrogated all night, and glad to be home, which he was certain she was not, since this couldn’t possibly be her home. Nor could she be happy to be anywhere in his vicinity. He wondered how much longer it would take her to crack.

      “I’ll follow you in,” he offered. “Make sure everything’s okay.”

      She looked vaguely alarmed by his offer. Which she naturally would be. If he followed her in, she’d have to admit she didn’t live here. And she wouldn’t be able to run away if he stayed too close.

      “That’s okay,” she said as she pushed open the door.

      “I’ll be fine. It’s a safe neighborhood. And I should know, since I grew up in this house.”

      Noah smiled indulgently. Of course she’d grown up in this house. It just screamed ruthless agent Lila Moreau. “Humor me,” he said. “I feel bad about what we put you through tonight, and I want to make sure you get all the way home safely.”

      Still looking wary, she said, “All right.”

      Her easy acquiescence put him on alert, and he quickly scrambled out of the car before she had a chance to escape. But instead of running, she made her way up the front walk, flipping through her keys until she found the one she wanted. Without hesitation, she strode up the stairs, shoved the key into the lock of the front door and twisted it.

      To Noah’s amazement, the door swung open and Lila went in, turning to wait for him before closing it behind them both. Two cats—one black, one with orange stripes—came running to greet her, both skidding to a halt when they saw Noah.

      “It’s all right,” she cooed to the cats, dropping down to a crouch. “He won’t hurt you. And I’m sure he was sincere when he told me how bad he feels for being so mean to me tonight.”

      That last was spoken half over her shoulder, and Noah almost smiled. Even delusional—if indeed that was what she was—the true Lila kept creeping out.

      Her word was evidently good enough for the cats, because both scurried forward again, bumping their heads into her knees, her hands, her hips. They obviously knew her well and were quite enamored of her. And she was clearly attached to them, laughing as she scrubbed them behind their ears and murmuring soothing words to explain her overnight absence.

      Noah’s mouth dropped open in amazement at witnessing the scene. Lila purring to cats? Lila showing affection? What the hell was going on? Just what had she been doing for the past five months?

      He drove his gaze around the room, taking in the furnishings that were as snug and pleasant, and as pre-World War II, as the house itself. An overstuffed flowered sofa and chair took up much of the right half of the living room, a white fireplace beyond it bisecting two sets of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed full of books. The mantelpiece played host to crystal candlesticks and cut-glass bowls, an antique clock and framed photographs whose subjects were indeterminate from this distance. Some were black-and-white, appearing to be quite old.

      To the left of the furnishings, French doors opened into what appeared to be a dining room, though Noah could only see part of it from where he stood—an expanse of wall covered in old-looking wallpaper of dogwood blossoms, the corner of a lace-covered table, the end of a china cabinet filled with enough china to make Martha Stewart look like a slacker.

      Scanning to the left side of the living room, he saw a baby grand piano sitting in front of a big bay window whose window seat was upholstered by a different kind of floral fabric from the sofa. Artfully scattered throw pillows covered one end, while sheet music was stacked neatly at the other. A feminine-looking briefcase sat on the floor near the piano, and sheets of lined paper, some filled with handwritten music—were stacked on the bench.

      Directly in front of him was a long hallway, the hardwood floor, like the floors of the living room, covered by a worn floral rug. But where the walls in the living room were the dark blue of a twilit sky, the walls of the hallway turned to butter yellow. Taking a few steps to the left, Noah saw that the hall walls were also covered on both sides by scores of framed photographs.

      Whoever lived in this house seemed to have a long history here. And whoever lived here was obviously very comfortable living here. He looked at Lila again. She was standing now, laughing at the cats who were still twining around her ankles. And somehow, she looked perfectly at home.

      No, Noah told himself. No way.

      “So you grew up in this house?” he asked carefully.

      She looked up at him with a puzzled expression. “Lived here my whole life,” she told him. “Except for my time at OSU. My father had retired by the time I graduated, and he was getting on in years, so I moved back home with him to live.”

      “And you’re a music teacher?” he asked, remembering how adamant she had been about that.