Tuesday, a warm summer night, 18 months later.

"We've got an easy morning," Della said, fumbling in her purse for the keys to her apartment. "Care to stay for a bit?"

"Hmm...I suppose," he agreed with a smile, squeezing her arm.

"I have a bottle of-" she stopped short and Perry felt her body go rigid against his. He looked at the door: it was cracked open, and the paint on the door jamb was chipped and scraped away. Someone had jimmied the door.

"Don't touch the knob," Perry instructed. With his elbow, he nudged the door open and they peered inside. "Anyone in here?" he demanded in a booming voice. With the sleeve of his coat, he flicked the lights on.

The drawers of her desk had been rifled through and the sofa cushions were scattered around the room.

"Go next door to Mrs. Wilson's and call the police."

00

"And you're sure nothing is missing?" asked the uniformed police officer.

"Reasonably. It's not like I have much worth stealing, I suppose. The few pieces of jewelry I have that are valuable are in the safe at my place of work, and I just paid this month's bills, so there wasn't any cash," she explained.

"It's not uncommon for thieves to break in and not find anything worth taking. Not," he added hastily, "that you don't have nice things, but a daylight burglar in an apartment house like this is looking for something small he can stuff into a suitcase or a laundry hamper. He's not going to take a television set or a stack of china dishes. You understand," the officer said, turning to Perry. He nodded noncommittally just to end the officer's rambling.

Perry was staying out of the way, leaning against the wall behind the table and keeping an eye on Della. Outwardly, she appeared only a bit shaken. No tears, no trembling hands or weakness in her voice. Her posture could be read as defensive-arms crossed over her chest, hands gripping opposite elbows-but that was the only clue.

"We'll be in touch, Ms. Street, if we find anything. Now, it's very rare that these folks return after they've hit. You'd do to get your lock replaced, and use the bolt whenever you're home, but I'll say with reasonable certainty that you're safe here," the lead officer assured.

"Thank you," Della said, following the three men to the door and securing it behind them. She turned slowly to survey the room, scattered first by the thieves and then by the investigating officers. Her arms were still across her chest and as she silently contemplated, she began biting at a fingernail.

The clock chimed the half-hour: 11:30. Perry pushed himself away from the wall and went to her side.

"I'm sure Paul would be happy to station a man in the lot to keep an eye on things for a night or two. Probably even do it himself, if it would make you feel better," he said in a quiet voice, putting his arm around her.

"I...I know the officer said they won't come back, but I...not tonight. I can't stay here tonight, not by myself." She sank into him, seeking solace. Perry's hands splayed across her back, trying to offer her some sort of security.

"Or...I could stay," he offered. "I'll sleep on the sofa."

"I'll get the extra sheets," Della said, snapping into her usual efficient self. She disappeared into the bedroom and Perry made himself comfortable: untying his tie, loosening his collar, and hanging his suit coat over the back of a chair. "There's a bottle of moscato in the refrigerator. Will you open it, please?" Della requested, returning to the main area of the apartment.

Perry popped the cork from the bottle and watched through the passthrough window as she returned a bit of order to her space. Resetting couch cushions, straightening a pile of magazines, drawing the drapes closed against the outside world. He plucked two stemmed glasses from the cupboard and poured them each a healthy measure. She'd stacked the blankets and pillows at the end of the couch and taken the middle cushion for herself, leaving him the arm, as usual.

Della had also made herself more comfortable while fetching the bedding: she'd taken off her shoes and stockings. As Perry handed her a glass of wine, she tucked her feet up underneath herself and leaned an elbow onto the back of the couch. She was clearly preoccupied as he sat down beside her. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes darted around the room, scanning every detail, the way she did when they were at a crime scene.

"This is a very nice wine," Perry murmured, trying to break into Della's rampaging thoughts.

"Hmm? Yes," she agreed, despite the fact that her glass was still as full as it had been when Perry had given it to her five minutes earlier.

"You know, you don't need to stay up to entertain me," he said, giving her a chance to escape, to process her emotions in privacy if she so desired.

"I'm sorry I'm not better company," she replied, dodging his unspoken question, looking down into her glass and taking a sip.

"Oh, no need to worry about that," he countered.

"I'm just thinking about when I'll have time to go through all the papers in my desk." She glanced at the roughly stacked mess around the small desk that she used to organize her personal papers. "Who knows what the thieves could have been after, emptying the drawers all over the place like that."

Perry saw the white corner of a typed page peeking out from under the table, and he bent to pick it up.

"The best place to aim a fatal blow is not at the head but at the heart," he read. "Do you have a file on sharp-shooting in there?" he teased.

Della examined the paper carefully. "I don't ever remember seeing this before...It's certainly not a phrase I've ever heard, although I suppose it's accurate. Most of the bullet wounds we run into are chest wounds."

"Very interesting. I wonder how it could have gotten there," Perry wondered, taking a sip of his wine.

"I suppose it could have been shuffled into one of the magazines or newspapers, and I never noticed. When they tossed them around, the paper could have fallen out and been kicked under the sofa."

"Could be; or someone could have accidentally dropped it. Not only the thieves, but the policemen, as well. It's a little poetic, perhaps, but I suppose it could be part of marksmanship training."

"This is all so unsettling." Della glanced toward her darkened bedroom and drew a shaky breath.

"Come here, Darling," Perry whispered, setting his nearly-empty glass aside.

He almost never used this moniker.

Occasionally, he'd whisper it against her lips as they kissed goodnight over a doorstep, or he'd add it in his head as a silent addendum at the end of a sentence. Usually, it was combined with an I love you… something they didn't necessarily shy away from, but held over for private moments.

So new was this territory, though, both of them only half-put-together and drinking wine on her sofa after midnight on a weeknight…

Somehow, it felt right to use with her in that intimate, secret time.

Della hesitated for only a moment before abandoning her glass on the low table beside his and leaning into Perry's side. It took another moment for them to settle into a comfortable position. She fit so perfectly under his arm, tucked against his side. There was just enough space for her to pillow her head against his shoulder, in the crook of his neck. Images flashed through his head of them like this over the next decades: perfectly intimate, intimately perfect.

"I can check the place over once more before you turn in, if you'd like. Make sure all the windows are shut and locked, nothing looks tampered with," he offered.

"I just want to stay here," she whispered. Perry took a deep breath and sank even deeper into the cushions, wrapping his arm tighter around Della's shoulders. "I love you."

He didn't need to say the words back, but he did, whispered into her hair. Gradually, the tension eased from her shoulders, and his fingers stopped rubbing her back. They fell asleep.