The fact was, I’d never dated an ex-spy from another country. Were there issues I should be aware of? Was he a bad risk? Had he done things in his past that would come back to haunt him and, therefore, me? He seemed remarkably well-adjusted, and his level of self-esteem was the healthiest I’d ever encountered. But had he done things in the past that would someday cause him to hate himself? Would he have flashbacks? Would they develop into full-blown post-traumatic stress disorder?

And speaking of his former lifestyle, what exactly had he done? I imagined he must’ve played many roles during his time in British intelligence, but he rarely spoke of them. He still worked in that world peripherally. Did his current job of providing security to his wealthy clients ever entail role-playing? Suppose a rich young widow required someone to play her lover in order to uncover a blackmailing scam. Would Derek play that role or would he send an associate? Did I have the right to ask? Should I trust him to be faithful? Was I being ridiculously naive?

Or was I just imagining monsters in the closets?

To be fair, he had every right to ask himself similar questions about me. I was raised in a commune. How weird was that? And let’s not forget that we’d met under the most bizarre circumstances: over a dead body. Since then, I’d been involved in several murder investigations in which I’d played the role of number one suspect. My strange connection to murder had caused some of my colleagues to wonder if they should risk being in the same room with me.

Nevertheless, I had been relentless in my quest to find the true killer in each case. Derek had been right there beside me, and I was elated to know that we shared a passion for justice.