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did.”
    They assessed. Not like Powers had assessed. Nope, this assessment had more to do with who could run the playground or the squad room or the boardroom. My kitchen was so filled with testosterone it was hard to breathe.
    Powers fanned himself. Sighed. Then he patted his pockets until he found a packet of the colored cigarettes he favored. He withdrew a pink one then began patting again. “Ellison, my darling, may I smoke?”
    There was no way Powers was smoking one of those nasty things in my house. The stench would linger for days. I shook my head and pointed to the back door. “Patio.”
    Then, ever the good hostess I tried to diffuse the tension. “Hunter is an old friend of the family’s.” Not my lawyer. I didn’t need a lawyer. Henry needed a lawyer.
    Hunter mirrored Detective Jones’ lazy pose and leaned against the doorframe. “Do you have a warrant?”
    “I invited him.”
    Hunter looked like his next question might have something to do with my intelligence—or lack thereof. I crossed my arms.
    Powers gave up patting. “Do you have a match?”
    “In the drawer.”
    He reached into the drawer and pulled out a matchbook, stared at it a moment then tossed it onto the counter. “Something you’re not telling me, Ellie, darling?”
    The matchbook was black with the name of a club printed in silver letters. Club K. It was almost innocuous. Almost. On closer inspection, the L in Club looked more like a riding crop than a letter. Something hung from the B’s loop. Not a Q’s lost squiggly or a printing error but a tiny pair of handcuffs.
    I hate roller coasters. I hate the grinding terror as the cars climb ever higher. I hate the stomach-in-my-throat feeling of the world collapsing as I hurtle toward the earth. I hate worrying that the kid in front of me is going to vomit and that I will be covered in cotton candy-pink sick. Looking at the matchbook, I felt that way—as if the world was disintegrating, as if I was flying toward an unknown landing that was sure to be painful. Hell, I might even be the one to vomit.
    I’d seen a matchbook like it before. Once. That Henry would have brought another one home and left it where Grace might find it...I blinked to clear my vision of a deep shade—perylene red.
    “May I see those?” Detective Jones held out his palm.
    I nodded.
    He waited for me to hand them to him. He could wait forever. I wasn’t touching them. My arms remained firmly crossed.
    When he realized I wasn’t moving, he picked them up, raised a brow.
    “My husband’s.”
    “What are those?” Hunter demanded.
    “Matches.” Detective Jones and I spoke in unison.
    Hunter tilted his silver head. “From where?”
    “Club K,” I admitted.
    “Where?” God bless a man who slept with half the women in the city without the aid of a riding crop or cuffs.
    “Club Kink.” My voice was so soft I don’t know how he heard me.
    Hunter looked properly appalled. “How did they get here?”
    I glanced at Detective Jones. His eyes actually looked nice, as if he knew what this conversation was costing me. I straightened my shoulders. “Henry.”
    The detective turned them in his fingers, opened them, then dropped them in his pocket.
    Madeline was dead. Henry was missing. There was a kinky matchbook in the junk drawer in my kitchen.
    What I needed was to paint. I needed to mix colors and feel their weight on my brushes—the lightness of cadmium yellow, the heft of cobalt blue, the almost burdensome ballast of raw umber. I needed to take a blank canvas and transform it with light and dark, sunshine and shadow. There’s no hiding behind a polite smile on canvas. No biting your tongue. No pretending. There’s only color and truth and form.
    I wanted them all out of my house. I wanted it more than I wanted chocolate or another glass of wine or the end of the worst day ever. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at the ceiling.
    Hunter got the hint. “Shall I count on seeing you tomorrow?”