Agatha brushes by Harris, grabbing his sleeve on her way. She pulls him along past the doormat on the floorboards, barely giving him time to kick off his sneakers, for her own sandals come off easily. Her bare feet make no sound on the living room's carpet. She lets go of his sleeve, dances behind him, blindfolds him with her hands and drives him forward, step by step. The smell of jasmine from her is stronger when he only has his nose and tactile senses.

The palms of her hands slip from his eyes to his shoulders. "We thought... we thought you could use a bit of break with fixing stuff."

She brought him to the kitchen. The appliances gleam pristine, and stainless, and steel. "Wow."

The dreamlike sensation doesn't go away as he wanders around the apartment, holding Agatha's hand. The carpet and walls range from beige to salmon, but someone took a calculated risk to upholster the couch and armchairs in a rich royal blue hue. Every furniture leg and every edge that can be curved, curves. The paintings on the walls have moldings of heavy gold: sea towns with tile roofs, cypress trees and ultramarine surf. The crystals sparkle on the chandelier.

This is someone willing to reject the utilitarian elegance of modern design and pander to his barbaric tastes.

"I see you've met my mom already," Harris says. A surprising number of people have visited Milwaukee and left without saying 'hi' to him.

"No, no, not yet!" Agatha snuggles his waist. "I've talked to her a lot and yes, you've guessed it. She's ordered everything in here and she supervised. She'll fly in on Tuesday. I'm less terrified than I should be. Is it wrong?"

"It's perfect."

"Really?"

There is an apologetic chuckle in her voice, so the two women talked and struck an accord. They left him out of everything, and yet it was all about him. It's the weirdest sensation in the world to let it go. He does, shred by shred. It's okay. It's really okay to be coddled this time.

"Really." He nods to fortify the word. "I want to see mom, yes. I needed to see you. More than air. More than anything..."

"Me too."

"If you wanted to get me alone..."

"I didn't..."

What?

"I did." She huffs in frustration at so many things to catch up on, all at once. "Of course, I did. I wanted to talk to you first about everything. But also, I wanted a chance to make sure..."

Her fingers nearly claw at her own throat. Slim fingers. Beautiful nails, lacquered to create a subtle mother-of-Pearl effect.

She forces down whatever torments her. "Harris, I had to stay in Singapore till the last moment. Otherwise, I would have tipped Oliver off, and I... I don't even know what he would have done. "

Oliver. Never forget about Oliver. He's like a ghost coming to ruin a feast.

He sinks into the new couch and stretches his arm along the top of his cushion. "Come sit with me. Or... do you want some water? I can—"

His glance surveys the fridge, the counters, the cabinets. Surely, there's at least a glass in there somewhere.

She pushes on his shoulders, woman-handling him into relaxation, then cuddles to his side, the unburnt one. Her knees fold so neatly under her. Her hair tickles his neck and fills his nostrils with the same smell of jasmine as he's been drunk on since the hospital. Her eyes hood after a sigh so content, that it brings one out of him as well. Worries wash away. They click together like two bits of a puzzle.

He wishes he could let the silence linger, but dread presses on his temples. He massages her shoulder, the one that isn't sheltered on his chest. "What happened in Singapore, sweetie? With Oliver."

Her chest heaves with another sigh. This time it's a troubled sigh, with a whimper—how he wishes he didn't have to ask!

"Sorry." He kisses the dark hair atop her head. More jasmine...

"Harris, he knew. He knew you came to Singapore. He knew everything, down to how many minutes I've stayed in your hotel room. I wiped my old phone clean, I bought a new one... and I don't know what else I can do."

His temples are in a vise that squeezes the veins to the surface of his skin. They pulsate. "Go on."

She lifts her eyes on him. "He accused me of being unfaithful. He raved... I'd never seen him rave before. Gosh. He threatened me with a bonfire to erase my temptations."

Dammit. But he survived. Was it worse than that though? "Did the son-of-a-bitch hurt you?"

"Yes." She swallows loudly. "He said that the fiery redemption will come from consummating our union. He came close to forcing it."

Harris jumps up. "I'm getting water."

"I don't need—"

"Then it's for me."

He bangs the cabinet doors like it's their fault he wasn't eloquent enough to carry Agatha out of danger that time. His hands shake as he fishes out a glass, runs the faucet. He lowers himself on the carpet by her feet and presses the glass to her lips.

She takes a gulp.

"I will kill him." It's not an empty threat of an impotent man. The urge to kill the predator is cold, certain, primal. One day it'll happen.

She dips her finger into the glass and draws wet lines on his forehead, then rolls the glass around her cheeks to cool down her burning cheeks.

"When he touched me... Harris, I've finally and fully realized I was sacrificing myself to an unhinged man. It was so stark. There was nothing celestial about his urges. No divine wrath. Just a petty man unleashing his base wants on me." She shivers. "Disgusting."

Harris freezes. "Are you okay when I hug you?"

He's kissed her too, an awful lot of times, unknowingly, when trauma casts long, dark shadows. Its grip is iron and it could destroy everything one loves. "The last thing I want is to hurt you. Tell me if anything is off."

She leans over toward him. "You aren't hurting me. And I... I handled him."

He pushes away hair that hangs into her face like a curtain to study her eyes. They are deep and calm.

"Do you remember what state you've found me in the Avantgarde?" she asks.

"Jesus..." It feels like a thousand years have passed since. He draws his hand across his face, over his eyes. "Yes. Yes. I remember." He doesn't wish to forget it either, because then there will be no Agatha in his life. And he would carry any weight to have her near.

"Because of how much it looked like a sexual assault and because I blacked out, I requested the hospital to examine me. There was no evidence of interfering."

Harris slips from the couch to hug her knees. They sit on the carpet... sometimes, being tall is too hard.

"I feel about as useful as a dishwasher right now," Harris mutters. "Actually, less useful."

"Agreed," she whispers into his ear then looks at her empty glass in puzzlement.

He takes it from her and pushes it far, far away.

She licks her lips, visibly collects herself and talks in an even, deadpan voice of a host reading a bus schedule on the radio.

"I begged him to believe me that nothing happened between us and begged him to remember the sanctity of the marital vows. He wouldn't listen. He was wrestling my clothes off."

She's detaching herself to tell him... The same acid that rises into his throat, stings hers. He squeezes her fingers.

"Then I remembered the Avantgarde," she says.

Harris jerks his head up. "Do you have clearer memories? Enough to testify?"

If Agatha could place Oliver on the crime scene, they could put him behind the bars. Eventually. If there's justice in the world. And if not... he'll have to take it into his own hands. He knows he has the right man.

She shakes her head with a sigh. "No, but I'm sure that I took my prescribed pills from the pop-pack, then went to bed in my pajamas."

"I never doubted it."

"You lie." Even the scorn in her voice is gentle.

"Not since I grew brain... Since I woke up to what a narrow-minded jerk I've become."

"There's hope for you." Some color returns to her cheeks. "So, someone must have drugged and undressed me, and if it were Oliver, then he wasn't tempted by my unconscious body."

"It was him," Harris says through gritted teeth.

She nods and her eyes glisten with more tears.

He'll kill Oliver. He doesn't know how yet or where or when, but he will. The slow simmer inside him will never die down otherwise.

"I thought maybe he wanted to stage retribution because I went to Wisconsin alone, without telling him," Agatha continues thoughtfully. "That he drugged me so it would appear dreamlike to me. The world is on fire... I'm laid bare before his judgment... Maybe he even imagined more. But, whatever his plan was, he overdid it with the drugs—and he didn't take advantage of me."

Harris adds Oliver in robes and a mask to the burning hotel room in his memory. Flames reflect on his attire. He leans over Agatha and lies to her that the fire sprung from her wrongdoings. That he, her angel, would save her soul... while leering at her naked, shivering form.

"The guy is a sick pervert."

"Yes. But there's logic to his perversion. When I pretended to faint, he couldn't get the satisfaction of controlling me," she says with a shrug that masks too much. "He staggered back and waited for me to stir from my swoon. Then he declared he believed me and was 'testing' my faith."

"Testing?!" Harris' voice breaks into a hoarse screech of outrage.

Agatha retrieves the empty glass and shoves it into his hands. He grips the bulbous thing, twists it, tries to keep himself from crushing it, throwing it like that last time with dad, because he doesn't want to spook her. He also doesn't waste air on repeating the threats lodged in his heart out loud. She's been through enough to deal with his anger.

Particularly because her voice strengthens and becomes resolute. "I talked to him non-stop, of our wedding, of the myriad things I have done and what I still had to do... but all I could think about were your words."

Love spreads through his chest, coating his fury. It brings it down like oil over boiling water. He finally risks lifting his gaze at her without fear of scorching her cornea with his murderous thoughts.

"Yes..." she says, "your words. You said, I shouldn't marry him if I don't like him the way I liked you. And I didn't love him anymore."

"You never did," Harris whispers.

She shrugs. "Once, I wanted nothing more than to behold my angel in the flesh and give myself to him. I outgrew these dreams with adolescence. Marriage would have changed nothing—the act would be against my heart and my will. But I would have gone through with it to keep you from harm."

"No!"

"Yes."

They stare at one another.

Harris doesn't say a word, but he comes up from his knees to put his arms around her. He listens for shivers or anything else that would tell him she's uncomfortable. She's supple in his arms. Her eyelashes are dry on his collarbone.

"Yes," she repeats softer. "But then I received the front-page news from Milwaukee."

"Heroic firefighter's house on fire, arson suspected." Or something like that. He linked it in his text, born of painkillers and despair.

"Uh-huh. That's how I knew my martyrdom would be in vain. I connected with Lonita. I combed my place and Oliver's for any shred of anything that could have DNA, fingerprints or hints of his dealings. At the first opportunity, I ran."

"The dresses, the hairstyles... you were trying to fool him." Here was his straightforward explanation!

"God, I wasted hours staring at the ceiling, feeling miserable like the worst jerk when you were in danger—" He shakes his head and kisses her hair.

"Sorry for never even guessing how bad things were..." He kisses it again. "Sorry for being so damn useless."

Another kiss. "Sorry for not hearing you needed help."

Her hand makes its way from where it lodged between their bodies. Her warm fingers trace his cheek. "Your text helped, Harris. You didn't complain about losing everything. You demanded nothing from me. You just asked me to stay safe."

"If only! I wanted a reply from you so badly, I held the phone in my hand for minutes, afraid to put it down."

She stirs in his embrace. "I had to delete your message as soon as it popped up, because of Oliver. But it meant everything to me that I can be loved no matter what, for no grand purpose, just like you love me."

"You exist—and that's enough for me," he agrees in a hoarse whisper.

"It lent me strength to decide that I won't let anyone make me their victim or plaything again."

His eyes sting. "You already were the strongest person I've ever met."