I hung up on Brian mid-sentence—something about "Don't waste a detective's time during a murder investigation!"—only to have the actual detective hang up on me with nearly identical words. While I stood there sulking, a passerby happened upon me and hauled me out. For all the drama, the resolution was anticlimactic, leaving even me feeling oddly unsatisfied.

After conveying my heartfelt gratitude and admiration to my rescuer, I began walking through Brisbane's streets toward home.

Brisbane, Australia’s third-largest city, sits at a lower latitude than Canberra the capital, Sydney the economic hub, and Melbourne with its famed livability. Officially it’s classified as subtropical, though when someone as cold-sensitive as me can wander around in short sleeves on a July winter night, I start to suspect we’re edging closer to the tropics. Longtime residents love to complain about global warming and extreme weather, but as a newcomer of only three years, I can’t say I’ve really noticed.

I took a small detour and soon found myself by the river. By day, it carried boats up and down the city—the Brisbane River, our winding landmark. Across the water, lights from buildings and cars scattered and shimmered. On this side, the river reflected only forest shadows and resting boats, the dark water deepening into black.

Staring into that blackness, my spirits lifted. And I finally set my course northward. I crossed a street lined with independent eateries and apartment buildings, then passed two blocks of luxury hotels.

Turning left at the corner of a jewelry shop that would never have anything to do with someone like me, I found my residence right before me. A bona fide luxury apartment building, located on the same street as the Hilton Hotel.

Blinking against the orange light spilling from the glass doors, I stepped into the entrance hall. I was about to pass between the concierge counter and the waiting area sofas as usual when I noticed a tall man leaning against the wall rather than sitting. My breath caught. I knew that figure.

Slightly disheveled ash-gray hair, nearly black. A hundred and eighty-nine centimeters tall (six-two in old money). Long legs wrapped in black slacks. Grayish-blue eyes tinged with a melancholy that drew sweet sighs from admirers, set in lightly tanned skin.

His earnest, well-formed features and perfectly straight posture looked as though every element the world might call "slovenly" had been carefully extracted and discarded. Did I ever give him my address? I searched my memory while standing frozen, staring at the man who had so thoroughly broken my heart three years ago—and whom I'd spent every day since trying to forget.

I wanted nothing more than to turn on my heel and flee, but that wasn't an option. With a sigh, I walked toward Brian, visibly displeased.

He noticed me and fixed me with a glare. Ah, right—I'd forgotten what a fierce look he had.

"Brian."

My voice came out far weaker than intended, and I wanted to click my tongue in frustration. Trying to mask my agitation, I continued brusquely.

"It's been a while. How did you find my place?"

Brian held my gaze and answered in a mild voice, "I asked your mother."

"What?! I never gave her my addr—" I started to protest, then remembered I'd sent her a birthday card recently. Feeling somehow betrayed, I grimaced.

"Next time, I'm sending that card without a return address."

"...Do you and your mother actually understand what 'disowned' means?"

"What choice do I have? If I don't send one, she sulks and it becomes a whole ordeal."

I sighed, picturing my mother. Beautiful, but armed with utterly irrational logic and not a shred of doubt in her own righteousness. A formidable woman. We'd fought constantly when I lived at home. We still fight occasionally, even after the disownment.

At this point, I'd let my guard down considerably—lulled by Brian's calm voice and the easy familiarity of bantering with someone I'd known for years, heartbreak notwithstanding. So I approached him without caution, and when he suddenly grabbed my upper arm and squeezed, I merely blinked up at him.

"Got you now, you bastard."

His voice had shed all its earlier mildness. Only then, like an idiot, did I remember that he'd looked thoroughly displeased.

"Luke, you—"

"How cruel! What kind of person are you! You tricked me!"

Belatedly twisting to shake off his grip, I shouted.

"That's because you always try to slip away the moment things get awkward. Now, take me to your apartment. I’m not leaving until I’ve heard the full story—and believe me, you’re not getting off without a serious lecture."

"Why is a lecture already a given?!"

"Um, sir?"

"Megan!"

My eyes lit up at the woman casting suspicious glances from reception.

"You look absolutely stunning today! Call the police!"

"Stop treating the police like a convenience service."

Brian pinched my nose with his free hand, then began dragging me toward the reception desk.

"Hi, Megan? I'm this guy's childhood friend, Brian Darcy."

He produced a business card with economical grace. When Megan shot me a questioning look, I reluctantly nodded, confirming his introduction wasn't a lie.

"Are you aware of the trouble he's gotten himself mixed up in?"

"Yes, the police called asking if he was here... They told me a bit about the situation."

"He's panicking about it, so I came to help sort things out."

"I am not panicking. I've got everything ready to flee in case I'm about to be thrown in prison for a wrongful investigation!"

"As you can see, this is what I'm dealing with. Also, the word you want is 'wrongful conviction,' Luke."

"Oh right, yeah, that's it!"

Watching me nod in agreement, Megan gave me a pitying look and sighed deeply. "I see..."

"If his confused testimony sends the investigation in circles, it'll be a headache for both the police and the victim's family. I'd like to hear what happened before it comes to that."

With that, Brian threw Megan a wink.

"I used to be a detective, believe it or not."

"Is that so? You're a bit too handsome for a detective, I must say."

The suspicion had vanished completely from her expression, replaced by a wry smile. I started to panic.

"His apartment is on the fifteenth floor. The key's in his right back pocket."

As she spoke, she pressed the elevator release button without hesitation. Brian flashed her a dazzling smile.

"Thank you, Megan. You're perfect."

He slid his hand into my pocket and fished out the key. I yelped at the intrusion and struggled harder.

"Megan, this is sexual harassment! Call the police!"

"Don't be silly, Luke."

With that, she dropped her gaze to something in her hands. I spotted a magazine—today's issue—and despair washed over me. Once this severe print addict's eyes landed on text, she wouldn't look up again until her shift ended. Her earlier intervention had been purely a favor to me.

As I was dragged toward the elevator, Megan called out casually.

"Do yourself a favor and take a good, long look in the mirror when you get upstairs."

Her words sent heat rushing to my cheeks.

—It's not my fault! Blame him for being so ridiculously handsome, damn it.