It had rained hard through the night and now the water raced and swirled, overflowing the ditch in front of my building. Houston was always flooding, the whole city built atop paved wetlands. The storm kept the sky dark, and the streetlights glowed through the morning. I stepped into my rubber boots and splashed to the barbecue shack around the corner. I ordered a baked potato filled with butter and sour cream and bacon and slow-smoked brisket, then bought beer at the liquor store next door. On the walk home, the temperature began to rise and moisture thickened the air.

As I approached my building I noticed a guy on my landing. I didn’t recognize him. I figured he must have the wrong apartment.

“Who are you looking for?” I called to him.

“Charlotte Ford,” the man said.

He stood under the awning above my door, a curtain of rain enclosing him on three sides. He had rough, dark features: hooded eyes, strong jaw, and a blunt Irish nose that softened his appearance. I liked how he said my name.

“That’s me,” I said. “Have we met?”

“No.”

He stood aside to let me out of the downpour. We crowded into the space, walls of water around us, while I dug for my keys. Rain fell from his hair onto his nose and he wiped it away. I smiled without meaning to, because he was so handsome and close. I got the door open and backed into the apartment, set my food on the front table.

“Detective Ash,” he said. “HPD.”

In an instant I thought of every law I ever broke, trying to figure out how much trouble I was in. Cops always scared the shit out of me—a reflex from the old days, from when I was dealing.

“You’re Charlotte Ford?” he said.

I nodded.

“Could I come in?” he said.

“Okay,” I said, pretending to be calm.

He stepped inside and glanced around. We were both dripping water on the floor. I took my shopping bags into the kitchen, stashed the beer and the food in the fridge. The detective followed and leaned against the wall, watching me. He took up too much space in the room. I felt claustrophobic, trapped. I was sweating in my raincoat, bright red rubber, its canvas lining dotted with unicorns.

“You know Danielle Reeves?” he said.

“Yeah, I know Danielle.”

I should have figured it had to do with her. Danielle was my oldest friend, the only person in the world who understood where I’d come from. I’d hardly seen her in the last few years, but that didn’t matter. I was ready to bail her out, lie, provide an alibi—whatever she might need. She was my friend. I would protect her.

“What’s this about?” I said.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said. “Danielle Reeves is dead.”

“What?” I said.

“Danielle is dead,” the detective repeated.

“Dead?”

“She was murdered,” he said, watching me carefully. “Let’s sit down.”

We went to the living room and I sat on the couch. He took the chair by the window. A watery spill of streetligh