He smelled it before he opened the door.
Something warm and rich, honey and garlic and the kind of deep savory smell that had absolutely no business coming from his kitchen. He stood in the doorway for a moment with his key still in his hand and just breathed it in before his brain caught up with what it meant.
Someone was cooking in his kitchen.
He hung his key on the hook — one key, he noted, because hers was gone, which meant she was home before him for the first time since she'd moved in — and loosened his tie and followed the smell down the hallway.
She didn't hear him coming.
That was the first thing that struck him — Mara Voss, who noticed everything, who read rooms the way other people read documents, who had identified the pattern of his morning routine within four days of mo
