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go down well, wouldn’t it?” Wednesday took a drag of her cigarette before continuing. “You know you haven’t even met her yet. You might actually like her; most men do.”
“So you keep saying. But I don’t think I could ever like a journalist, I never trust them and neither should you. Living with her could compromise your cases.”
“In what way exactly?”
“Oh work it out,” he replied as he vigorously crushed his partially smoked cigarette under foot. “An alcohol-fuelled evening could loosen your lips, and hey presto . . .”
“You’re very quick to judge people. Perhaps we should just write our reports then go home.”
Sitting in her car, she pushed in the Vivaldi CD for the drive home; letting the images of the day slowly leach from her mind.
Pulling onto her drive, she saw lights glinting through the stained glass panel in the front door. Scarlett was in and most likely waiting to see her.
Opening the front door, she was greeted by the inviting smell of warming cookies. Scarlett’s speciality usually reserved for when she wanted a favour. Oh how Lennox would crow .
“Just in time,” said Scarlett, bending down to pull a tray of golden cookies from the Aga. “I’ll make a pot of Earl Grey to go with these.”
“This is a warm welcome. What’s the catch?”
“Oh the cynicism. Can’t I bake something just for my big sister?”
“No, as it either means you’ve got some relationship hiccup, or it’s something to do with work. Which is it?”
Scarlett was unfretted by the comments. She plated up the warm cookies and brought the pot of tea to the table. Sitting opposite her, she bit into the doughy cookie, leaving crumbs in the corner of her mouth. Wednesday looked at her over the rim of her teacup and admired her Cupid’s bow and high cheek bones.
“I bet I’m right that there’s a link between the missing boy and the dead boy.” Her eyes flashed with excitement.
“You know I can’t discuss cases with you. House rules, remember.”
“I know, but this is my first major case. This is my chance to showcase my talent. I won’t mention you.”
“You know that wouldn’t make a difference, lots of people know we live together; they’d figure it out instantly.”
Scarlett’s shoulders drooped but her emerald eyes retained a sparkle. “Perhaps I could take a different angle? I could do an article on you. I could shadow you, that way I’d be open about my source.”
“No, this case is complicated enough without you tagging along. Besides, my boss would never go for it.”
Wednesday hated to be harsh with Scarlett, and it hurt her to see the disappointment in her perfect face. But rules were rules for a reason; she wanted to keep her personal and work life as separate as possible. Too much could go wrong.

Chapter Eight
 
The doorbell rang as Wednesday bit into the last piece of toast with apricot conserve.
“I’ll get it,” Scarlett called out as she danced to the front door.
She found an immaculately dressed, tall man with sharp hazel eyes gazing at her from the doorstep.
“Detective Jacob Lennox, what a pleasure to meet you,” she said as she extended a willowy arm. “I saw you in the press room yesterday,” she added in response to his quizzical look.
“I’ve come to collect Eva, is she ready?”
Scarlett ushered him in and led him towards the kitchen. Wednesday recognised his voice and crammed the last morsel of toast in her mouth, rendering her unable to speak.
“Morning Eva, nice house.”
She mumbled a response, spraying a few crumbs onto the Victorian pine table. Wiping crumbs off her chin she turned to observe the ritual that always occurred when any man met Scarlett. They became like courting pigeons, bobbing about and cocking their heads as they chased the semi-reluctant female.
“I’m Scarlett, by the way,” she said.
“The journalist . . .” his voice was meaningfully derisory.
“Yes, and I understand you have an acute disliking of my profession. Perhaps I’ll