2. Norah

At a secluded table in the back of a cheap Mexican restaurant opposite the train line, Norah was counting the number of ways her date had disappointed her. One: in his profile, Kevin professed to be "interesting," yet he'd already mentioned his passion for Dungeons Dragons twice. Two: he'd called himself "intelligent" but wore the gormless dull-witted smile of a simpleton (it was common knowledge that, on average, smiley people had a significantly lower IQ than the somber). Three (the most glaring of the disappointments so far): his profile picture resembled Harry Styles, yet the man who sat before her bore a striking resemblance to a weasel.

"So," Kevin said, beaming like a fool, "I noticed that you were Norah with an h? What's that all about?"

Norah stared at him. "I noticed you were Kevin without a h?" she said. "What's that all about?"

"A h?" Kevin replied, perplexed. "In Kevin?"

She closed her eyes. Four: his self-professed "great sense of humor" appeared to be in the eye of the beholder.

Norah was starting to wonder if this was worth it. All she wanted was a few odd jobs done. Probably only a couple of hours' work.

A few years ago, when she'd discovered she could get the majority of her household maintenance taken care of easily—and, of more importance, cheaply—by having dinner with a man and planting the faintest suggestion of sex in his mind, she'd thought herself a genius. Particularly since she rarely had to deliver on the sex. Even on the occasions when she did, it was worth it; growing up with a scarcity mentality, Norah was nothing if not parsimonious. And as Kevin had listed "handyman" as a quality in his online dating profile (something that would inevitably be the fifth disappointment), she'd thought this would be a fairly straightforward transaction. They'd wake up Saturday morning, he'd complete a few odd jobs, and be gone by lunchtime.

No such luck.

Norah's therapist, Neil, was forever telling her she had a dysfunctional attitude toward sex.

"Actually," she said, "the opposite is true. I have sex with a man, and he fixes my hot-water service. Or cleans out the gutters. Or pays a bill. Sex, quite literally, allows me to function."

Neil was unmoved. "Sex isn't supposed to be quid pro quo, Norah."

"No?" She considered that. "Then what is it supposed to be?"

Neil hadn't responded straightaway, which made Norah think she'd won. But it turned out he was just taking his time to answer, acting thoughtful when he was probably just taking advantage of the fact that he was getting paid by the hour.

"It's an act of mutual pleasure," he said finally.

"Exactly," Norah said. "He gets pleasure from the sex, and I get pleasure from free help around the house."

Neil had got exasperated then. "Norah, I suspect your skewed idea of sex and its power stems from your childhood. Do you want to talk about that a bit?"

"No." Norah wanted to keep proving her point. She knew she could go several more rounds with Neil, each time reinforcing the fact that sex was, in fact, a transaction. Instead, Neil wanted to talk about her stupid childhood. It was a crying shame.

"Do you like kids?" Kevin asked her eagerly.

"No," she said. "I like dogs."

Specifically, she liked the big stupid ones, the ones that barked at the wind and got underfoot and bowled you over every time you walked in the door. Norah had three of this particular type of dog—a greyhound–Great Dane cross named Converse, a regular greyhound named Couch, and a mutt named Thong who almost certainly had some bullmastiff in him. They were all named for the first item they destroyed after coming to live with Norah.

Kevin beamed, revealing comically large front teeth. He resembled a marketplace caricature. "I have a Jack Russell called Harvey!"

For the love of God.

The worst part of dating, she'd told Neil at their last session—far worse than the sex if it happened—was the conversation. It was not only tedious but also pointless, given that if they were to become life partners eventually, then they would most likely spend the next thirty or forty years gazing at either the television or their phones in companionable silence. Why not practice some of that silence now, to get the feel of it? See if the silence felt right.

Norah signaled to the waiter, who was lurking nearby.

"Can I get you anything, ma'am?"

"A lobotomy," Norah said. "And make it a double."

The waiter smirked.

Outside the window a couple of dachshunds passed by with their owners. Norah waved at them. Kevin ordered a margarita.

"What is it you do for a living, Norah?" Kevin asked as the waiter shuffled off.

"I run my own business."

"Really?" Kevin leaned forward to get a better look at her boobs. "What kind of business?"

"I complete online IQ and psychometric testing on behalf of idiots who are applying for jobs."

Kevin's puzzled face demonstrated that he would almost certainly need her services if the circumstances arose. She wondered if she should give him her business card. "Psychometric testing?" he repeated.

"Businesses these days are stupid enough to think that they'll get better employees if they force them through a rigorous screening of ridiculous tests," she explained. "Instead, they get the most inventive cheaters. Which, admittedly, often translates to success in the workplace…"

"So you complete the test for them?"

"Guaranteed pass or your money back," she said in an American infomercial-type voice. She liked her infomercial voice, and often wondered if she should audition to use it professionally. "I usually get a few wrong so they don't mistake the person for a genius. That would be irresponsible."

"How does it work?" Kevin asked.

"It's pretty easy. I use a VPN that places my IP address at the client's location, then I log on at the same time as the candidate and complete the test while they sit there. They fill out all their own details and submit it from their own computer. For the privilege I charge them three hundred dollars a pop."

"Three hundred bucks? You must be pretty good at those tests."

"What's shocking is how bad most people are at them. Makes me worry for the world, it really does."

She'd been enjoying her monologue—Norah liked nothing more than talking about what idiots people were—but her mood dipped when she noticed Kevin staring at her. His eyes were all gooey.

"What?"

Kevin bared his teeth in a weaselly smile. "It's just… you're really pretty."

Norah was aware that she was attractive. She wasn't blind and, unlike Kevin, she wasn't a half-wit. She was six feet tall—and most of it was her legs—with unblemished olive skin and tumbling brown hair, courtesy of her Lebanese mother. She also had bright blue eyes—unusual for her complexion. People went wild for her eyes, regularly stopping her on the street to comment—or at least trying to, but usually Norah forestalled them, saying, "Yes, I know I have amazing eyes, thanks for noticing." Presumably she had her father to thank for her bright blue eyes but as she didn't know who he was she hadn't bothered.

It baffled Norah that her breasts weren't given more attention. They were, objectively speaking, an exercise in perfect symmetry, scale, and shape. A few years back, when Neil asked her to think of one thing she was grateful for, she hadn't hesitated. "The girls," she said, glancing down. Neil had appeared confused, so she'd lifted her top. She'd had to endure a lengthy lecture on "appropriate behavior in therapy" after that.

Kevin was still smiling at her. "I just… I can't believe I'm on a date with you."

Norah had just come to the conclusion that no amount of help around the house was worth spending time with Kevin when her phone began to ring. The gods, it seemed, were smiling on her.

"Must take this," she said, seizing the phone. "Hello?"

"Am I speaking to Norah Anderson?"

"Yes." Norah pressed a finger into the ear not holding the phone to block out the ambient noise. "Who is this?"

"My name is Detective Ashleigh Patel."

Norah frowned. The fact that Norah couldn't recall any dealings with a Detective Patel didn't mean anything necessarily. When you were in trouble with the cops as often as Norah was, the names and voices tended to blur.

"Sorry, Detective," Norah shouted, "I'm in a restaurant and it's a little hard to hear. I'm just going to step outside."

She waved at Kevin, who nodded, and walked out of the restaurant, onto the busy street. "Okay, I'm outside. What's this regarding?"

"It's to do with an investigation I'm working on."

"What investigation?" Norah kept walking away from the restaurant. She wasn't planning to return. She doubted Kevin would be able to fix the fan in her bathroom anyway.

"I'm part of a team investigating a crime we think may have occurred around the time you were living at Wild Meadows foster home."

Norah stopped walking so abruptly that a man crashed into her. She spun around and shoved him away, glaring as he called her a "psycho bitch."

"Are you all right?" the detective asked.

Norah didn't reply. She couldn't. Her heart was pounding in her ears, like when she swam laps underwater. "Yes."

"What I have to tell you is a little distressing," the detective cautioned. "It might be helpful if you were with someone right now."

"Norah!"

She glanced back over her shoulder. Kevin was striding toward her. Shit.

"I grew up in foster care," she told the detective as she began to jog. "I'm comfortable with distressing. Shoot."

Norah began to jog away.

"Hey!" Kevin called. "Wait up!"

"Are you sure you're all right?" the policewoman asked.

"I'm fine." Norah slowed, partly out of shock and partly because she was out of breath. She hadn't run since the last time she'd been chased by police, and she was out of shape.

"Well, some excavation work has been done at your former foster home. And while they were down there, they uncovered—"

"Norah!" Kevin called again, closing in her.

For fuck's sake.

She stopped short. It was all too much. Police. Wild Meadows. Kevin. Something had to give.

"Hold on a second," Norah said to the detective. She lowered the phone a waited until Kevin was right behind her before she spun around, taking him down with a right hook. It was a solid punch. Strong and from the chest.

Kevin stared up at her from the pavement, his nose spurting blood. "Jesus! What did you do that for?"

"Are you there, Norah?" the police officer was saying.

Norah lifted the phone back to her ear. "Yes," she said. "Sorry about that. Go ahead."