Immoral by Brian Freeman

she said.
    Stride glanced at her, embarrassed. “Well, actually, I’m the one who makes the best margaritas,” he said. “And my place is on the water.”
    “Oh,” Andrea said. He sensed her sudden hesitation.
    “I’m sorry, I guess I should have explained. Look, I don’t have any intentions here. You said you hated noise, and my porch is quiet, except for the waves. But we can go somewhere else.”
    Andrea glanced out the window. “No, it’s okay. I’m with a cop, right? If you get fresh, I can always call—well, you.” She laughed, comfortable again.
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m sure. But those margaritas better be good.”
    He reached his house a few blocks after the bridge and pulled into the strip of sand that counted as a driveway. When they got out, the street was still and dark. Andrea studied Stride’s tiny house and the jumble of skeletal bushes out front with a puzzled smile.
    “I can’t believe you live on the Point,” she said.
    “I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Why?”
    “It’s so rough out here. The storms must be brutal.”
    “They are,” he admitted.
    “You must get buried in snow.”
    “Sometimes the drifts go up to the roof.”
    “Doesn’t it scare you? I think I’d feel like the lake was going to swallow me up.”
    He leaned across the roof of the car and stared at her thoughtfully. “I know it sounds crazy, but sometimes I think the storms are my favorite part. They’re the reason I’m here.”
    “I don’t understand,” Andrea said, confused. She shivered as a gust of wind blew past them.
    “Let’s go inside.”
    He put an arm around her to warm her as they walked toward the door. She let her body drift against his, and it felt good. He could feel her shoulder through the sleeve of her leather coat and feel her hair brush against his face. He let go long enough to fumble for his key. Andrea wrapped her arms around herself.
    He let them inside. The hallway was dark and warm. He heard the ticking of the grandfather clock. They lingered silently together after Stride closed the door. He realized now that Andrea was wearing perfume, something soft, like rosewater. It was strange to catch the aroma of a different woman’s perfume inside his house.
    “What did you mean about the storms, Jon?”
    Stride took her coat and hung it inside the closet. In her skimpy outfit, she was obviously still cold. He hung his own coat up and closed the closet door. He rested his back against it. Andrea was watching him, although they were both barely more than shadows in the hallway.
    “It’s like time hangs there suspended,” Stride said finally. “Like I can get sucked inside the storm and see anything or anyone. There are times, I swear, I’ve heard my father. Once I thought I could see him.”
    “Your father?”
    “He worked on one of the ore ships. He was washed off the deck in a December storm when I was fourteen.”
    Andrea shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”
    Stride nodded quietly. “You still look cold.”
    “I guess this was a stupid outfit, huh?”
    “It’s beautiful,” Stride said. He felt an urge to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he resisted.
    “That’s sweet. But yes, I’m cold.”
    “You want a sweatshirt and jeans to put on? I’m afraid that’s the height of fashion in this house.”
    “Oh, I’ll be okay. It’s warm inside.”
    Stride smiled. “But I was going to suggest we sit on the porch.”
    “The porch?”
    “It’s enclosed, and I’ve got a couple good space heaters.”
    “I’m going to freeze my ass off, Jon,” Andrea said.
    “That would be a shame, because it’s a very cute ass.”
    Even in the darkness, he felt her blush.
    They walked into the kitchen. Both of them blinked as Stride turned on the light. He realized to his dismay that the last three weeks of the investigation had left his house in chaos, particularly the sink, which was stacked with dishes. The dinette hadn’t been cleared in at least two days. In