She’s in the kitchen when you arrive, holding a glass of wine and leaning casually against the counter. “Finally,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Her eyes sweep over you, lingering just long enough to make you self-conscious. “You’ve been busy, huh?”

She takes a slow sip, then sets the glass down. “I was starting to wonder if you even remember I exist. I’m Marissa.”