Giving him a light pat on the back, Chrysanthe withdrew and beckoned him inside. Virgil obeyed, shutting the door behind them as he entered the sanctuary. A blanket of warmth enveloped him, somehow comfortable despite the rising temperatures of the summer.

  Chrysanthe padded through the hall and past the stairway into the wooden-floored living room. She gestured for him to sit on the plump black couch against the left wall. “You’ll best match the décor if you are at the far left, maybe three centimeters from the edge.” Her eyes twinkled.

  Virgil attempted to smile as he squeezed past the table and sank where she indicated. Chrysanthe lowered herself into the cushion at the other end.

  She must have redecorated since his previous visit: several new figurines and ribbons had made their ways onto the Terpsichore shrine next to Chrysanthe’s end of the couch, simple white paper lamps now stood in the corners, and a blank white canvas faced the couch from the opposite wall. “Looks nice.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice sounded bright. “How are you? You look... depressed again."

  "I guess so." He looked at his shoes and rubbed his wrist. “But would you trust a cheerful homicide detective?”

  She gave him a wan smile. "I don't know, but I'd like to see a cheerful Virgil. Although I'm worried smiling would make your facial muscles cramp up."

  "Sorry. I guess I should try to smile more."

  "I'm teasing. I'm just worried about you. What's the occasion for the visit? You don't come over very often."

  “It’s just been awhile.” He clasped his hands, turning to the table to hide his wince at the memory of earlier. “And I’ve had kind of a bad day. I thought I’d stop by. If that’s okay?”

  She laughed. “Usually, that’s the sort of question people ask before they show up at someone’s house in the middle of the night. It’s fine. It’s good to see you.”

  Virgil grimaced. He should have called first, or maybe scheduled a time to see her later in the week. Maybe she didn’t want him here right now. Still, even though he’d only been here a few minutes, it was already the best night he’d had in weeks. And after those moments with the razor... He couldn’t leave yet.

  “Thanks for coming to my show the other night. I know dancing isn’t really a hobby of yours.”

  “Sure. It was... I really—"

  Chrysanthe laughed. “That’s okay. You don’t have to pretend you liked it. I was still glad you came.”

  “Okay.” Virgil tried to lean back, decided it made him look awkward, and sat forward again. Then he noticed his legs brushing against each other and forced them farther apart. “I started therapy, like you recommended.”

  Chrysanthe chuckled, and Virgil's face grew hot. “I recommended that three years ago. I’m glad you started, though. I think it will help. I don’t want you feeling so down all the time.”

  "I don't, either. Maybe being depressed is helpful, though. It means I’m more likely to take risks since I’m less concerned about the consequences. That could be good for my job.”

  For a few moments, Chrysanthe seemed to force herself to remain composed. “That’s a horrible thing to say. You’re going to get yourself killed if you think like that.” She shuddered. “You need to keep going to therapy. It obviously hasn’t helped yet.”

  Virgil's hands gripped his legs more tightly. “Okay.”

  “So what has your therapist said?”

  “Last time, this morning, he said I should try to find a friend.”

  “That’s a good suggestion. I think that would be really good for you. One effective way to meet people is to join a temple group. That’s where I met Matthaios.”

  Going to temple sounded horrible. He hadn’t gone since moving out of their mother’s house, and he’d wanted to stop attending long before that. “I don’t really get along with those people. They’re too certain about everything.”

  Loud clomping from the staircase interrupted Chrysanthe’s response. Virgil craned his neck to look past her as a pair of hairy legs came into view, followed by the rest of Chrysanthe’s husband. Matthaios shambled across the hallway floor toward them, dressed in shorts and a tight white tanktop. He scratched his stomach and stared blankly as he thudded past Chrysanthe and flopped into the couch’s middle seat. After adjusting his muscular frame for a moment, he put his arm around Chrysanthe and kissed the top of her head.

  “Hey, Matthaios,” Virgil said.

  “Hi, Virgil.” Matthaios made it sound like a grunt.

  Virgil shifted. “So, how are you two doing?”

  “Great!” Chrysanthe beamed. “Matthaios is up for a promotion, and I’m taking on two new students. And I’m thinking of entering the competition this fall. The show’s over, so I have more time to prepare personal material.”

  Matthaios rubbed her back. “You’re going to win this year.”

  “That’s good.” Virgil’s voice had risen an octave. He racked his brain for something else to say and noticed the urn on the table. “You’ve still got Mom’s ashes set out.”

  “Yeah,” Chrysanthe said while Matthaios stared straight ahead. “It makes it feel as though she’s still with us. And it’s the least we can do for her, since she raised us by herself after Dad was killed.” She paused and then fixed Virgil with her lecturing gaze, the one that could be serious or joking. “You know, you could take her, too. Or we could split her. I can scoop some of the ashes into a baggie for you.”

  Virgil stared at her, still uncertain if she were serious. “I don’t think she would find that funny.”

  “Sure, she would.” Chrysanthe laughed. Then she paused. “No, you’re right, she probably wouldn’t. Still, you could take her now and then.”

  “She’s dead,” Virgil said. “I don’t think she even—"

  “I think it’s cute.” Matthaios hugged Chrysanthe and kissed her again. She smiled in return. Matthaios faced Virgil. “Actually, we were just about to turn in, so...”

  “No, that’s all right,” Chrysanthe told Virgil. “You can stay. It’s always good to see you.”

  “Even in the middle of the night,” Matthaios said. Virgil winced.

  Chrysanthe swatted Matthaios and stood up. “I told him he could come by any time.” She turned to Virgil. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Um, sure.” Virgil resisted glancing at Matthaios and instead stared at the floor.

  “Talk amongst yourselves while I’m gone.” Chrysanthe walked to the kitchen. “Red or white?”

  “Um, red.” Virgil took a breath. “Can... can I get ice in it?”

  Matthaios frowned. “That’s disgusting.”

  Virgil felt his legs clamp together again, but this time let them be. “Okay, I don’t need ice.”

  “It’s fine. You can have ice,” Chrysanthe called out from the kitchen.

  Matthaios leaned back, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the couch. Virgil squirmed in his seat, wondering if he should excuse himself. He stared at the floor, then the table, and continued moving his eyes between the two.

  He shouldn’t have come. He was ruining their night, just like he ruined everything.

  “Um,” said Virgil, “that’s cool about your promotion.”

  Matthaios shifted position. “Yep. It is.”

  “So what will you be doing now?”

  “I'm the new Principal Investigator of the Weaponized Bacterial Infections Unit in the Biowarfare Department."

  “That sounds cool. What w—"

  “Do you mind?” Matthaios slouched more. “I’m tired and not in the mood for talking. To you.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Virgil wanted to fold in on himself and disappear. He shouldn’t have expected solace. He didn’t deserve it. He made everyone’s life worse.

  Chrysanthe returned. She carried three wine glasses divided precariously between two hands, but the liquid contents didn’t shift position as she moved.

  “Refills will be coming shortly,” she sang while handing the first glass to Matthaios and the second to Virgil. She rejoined them on the couch.

  The cool liquid soothed his throat, and a layer of tranquility rolled over his thoughts. Nice and chilled, the way the bartender had made it. He raised the glass to his lips for another sip...

  “Virgil.” Chrysanthe stretched her arm across Matthaios to hold the aluminum libation bowl for Virgil. “I’d appreciate it, when you’re in our house...”

  “It’s Blasphemers’ Week,” said Virgil. “The gods aren't paying attention.”

  “Not an excuse. It's a terrible holiday, anyway.” She shook the bowl. “Please.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” Virgil acquiesced, wasting several drops of perfectly good wine by pouring them in the bowl.

  “Thank you.” Chrysanthe and Matthaios added their own drops to the bowl before she placed it under the table.

  Virgil took another drink. “Doesn’t it ever bother you that your religion condones the mistreatment of women?”

  Chrysanthe’s face hardened. “We are not discussing that again.”

  Matthaios glared at him and, while sitting up straight, elbowed him in the ribs.

  "Ouch," said Virgil. "Sorry." He stared at the blank canvas on the opposite wall. I said the wrong thing again. Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped with that razor. He shuddered.

  “Did you want to look at the photo album?” Chrysanthe asked.

  “What?”

  Before he could make a decision, she stood up and darted across the room. He didn’t know she’d put together a photo album.

  “Have you seen it?” Virgil asked Matthaios.

  Matthaios nodded without looking at Virgil. “I have to take a shit.” He stood and plodded toward the staircase.

  Chrysanthe returned a moment later with a thick green book adorned with streaming ribbons. “The ribbons are so that I know it’s the photo album instead of our receipt book.” She reclaimed her seat. “Also, the receipt book is smaller and blue.”

  “Looks nice,” said Virgil. “Are you sure you all want me here right now? It looks as though—"

  "It's fine." She opened the book and flipped past the first few pages, then angled it so Virgil could see.

  The next several pages gave an overview of their childhoods. Chrysanthe sitting at a table with her birthday cake, surrounded by twelve other kids. Chrysanthe and her friends in a line for a roller coaster. Chrysanthe and her friends performing a dance routine she’d choreographed before turning twelve. In contrast, Virgil’s pictures showed him alone or with Chrysanthe. Their parents were sprinkled throughout the pictures, sometimes sitting with their children or sometimes in the background. Eventually, their father stopped appearing in photographs, but the trend with Chrysanthe and Virgil continued. Chrysanthe always had a flock of admirers, while Virgil sat alone.

  “That’s what I wanted to show you.” Chrysanthe tapped the page.

  Virgil looked up from the book. She wanted to show me she had more friends than I did?

  Chrysanthe must have seen his expression. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, do you really want the rest of your life to be like this? You haven’t changed since I’ve known you. And I’ve known you for a long time. I worry about you. I think your therapist is right: you do need a friend, and I want to make sure you take it seriously and that, this time, you don’t wait three years to start trying something someone suggests.”

  Virgil looked at the floor and took a sip of wine. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” Probably he was capable of accomplishing nothing in that respect, and failures made the pain deeper.

  “It’s just that you seem really depressed and that won't change until you do something about it. And really, consider temple. I know you don’t think much of it, but it can change your life. You know the saying: 'the goats don’t know the gods, and one can see their lot in life.'” Chrysanthe shook her head. “Well, I’ll stop harassing you.”

  She closed the book and set it on the floor beside the couch. Immediately after she did so, Matthaios’ heavy footsteps pounded against the stairs.

  Matthaios settled into place between the two of them without saying anything and retrieved his wine from the table. He took a sip, leaned back, and placed his arm around Chrysanthe’s shoulders. “The wine’s good.”

  “Thanks.” Chrysanthe leaned over Matthaios to look at Virgil. “So, how’s work?”

  Virgil grimaced. “Could be better. The chief accused me of murdering the victim.”

  “Wait, what?” Her eyes widened. “You? But... doesn’t that usually mean a trial by combat?”

  “Yeah.” Virgil looked at the floor. “So that happened.”

  “Virgil, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that would be like.” Chrysanthe looked confused, as though she had heard something incorrectly.

  Matthaios straightened. “You won a trial?”

  “Technically.” Virgil remembered the formal accusation and running and turning to see Artino’s remains on the road. A shudder ran through him. “I ran into the street during the trial and the chief followed and got hit by a car. So I don’t know if I won, but I at least can’t be accused of the same crime again.”

  “Oh.” Matthaios leaned back again.

  “That’s terrible.” Chrysanthe clenched her fist. “You should have said something earlier. I can’t imagine people doing something like that to you. They knew you didn’t commit the crime.” She stood and began pacing the room. “That place isn’t safe for you. If they did it once, they’re going to try again. You need to get a job somewhere else.”

  “You’re probably right.” Virgil took another sip. “Maybe my death would be good for the profession, though. If everyone knows how dangerous it is to be a homicide detective, more people will want to be one.”

  Chrysanthe wrinkled her nose. “That’s a terrible thing to say. Are you sure you're okay?"

  He could see his bathroom again, his arm on the counter, the razor held against his wrist. "I'm fine."

  She seemed skeptical. "Did anyone even stand up for you? When you were accused?"

  “Schirra did, but no one listened to her.” At least Chrysanthe cared about what he had gone through. Patroklus hadn’t seemed to. Would Nicholas have expressed sympathy? Probably not, but he would have felt it on the inside. “And our chiefs keep dying. We’ve lost three in the last three days. It’s so stupid. They’re throwing their lives away. But it’s probably the only reason I’m still allowed to investigate Nicholas’ murder: the chiefs die before they have time to remove me from the case.”

  “They had families, right?”

  “Yeah. All three of them had a wife and kids.”

  “Such a barbaric custom.” Chrysanthe returned to her place on the couch. “Those chiefs are spouses and parents, and no one thinks anything of them dying. And then they accuse you just because they can. Thinking of you being killed like that... It’s infuriating that our modern police force still chooses to handle criminal investigations in such a stupid way.”

  “I think it’s a good idea.” Matthaios took another gulp. “It prevents the blood feuds that we had before the police were created.”

  “It’s the 55th century. Surely there are better ways of preventing blood feuds. Like maybe having an effective method of investigating crime instead of crossing your fingers that you’re killing the right person.” Chrysanthe looked back to Virgil. “You really need to get out of there. I suppose the decision is being made for you. You heard they’re voting on Kelipapalous’ bill in three days and they expect it to pass?”

  Virgil grimaced, remembering the senator’s speech. “Yeah. Whatever they decide, though, I owe Nicholas. He was a good guy, and his death should be avenged. I want the actual killer to be punished, not just whichever random person the police pick. That’s worth the risk.”

  After a long pause, Chrysanthe prompted, “So, do you have any leads?”

  "Sort of. Most haven't worked." Virgil swirled the wine in his glass. "Our priest performed two rituals. I’ve read Nicholas’ diary. And I’ve spent two days tracking down people who knew Nicholas. He apparently owed money to some people at a bar and to someone he met at a Dionysium.”

  “Oh, I love the Dyonisia!” Chrysanthe said. “All the wine and orgies.”

  Matthaios grinned. “Good stuff. So many memories.”

  “If you still have the memories, you’re doing it wrong.” Chrysanthe and Matthaios laughed.

  Virgil blinked, deciding he didn’t want to know if they were joking. “Nicholas borrowed money from people since he didn’t have a job. He kept applying for jobs, but no one would hire him. Mostly, he was looking into security guard stuff. I thought our priest might be involved, and he was doing something with the lab where you work, Matthaios. Oh, and a couple guards who worked there were killed recently. Petrides and Tantalo. I went by the lab today, but no one told me anything. They just kicked me out.”

  Matthaios grunted and paused for a moment before his face cracked and he burst into laughter. “I heard about that,” he said after his guffaws had subsided. Chrysanthe stared at him. “Everyone at the office was talking about it, how some guy came into the lobby and the guards picked him up and tossed him around. ‘I choose legs! I want to leave on my legs!’” He laughed again, then abruptly stopped and straightened his face as he turned to Chrysanthe. “Sorry, I didn’t realize at the time that was him.”

  Virgil blinked. “Yeah, that was me.”

  Chrysanthe kept her gaze focused on Matthaios. “It doesn’t sound that funny.”

  “Hm. Yeah.” Matthaios’ mouth twitched. “Guess not.”

  Chrysanthe didn't appear mollified. "Did you know those two guards who were killed?"

  "Petrides and Tantalo?" Matthaios shrugged. "They were the two who were on drugs the other night. The reason I had to go to that meeting and missed your show. They got fired. Didn't know they got killed, too."

  "Oh," said Virgil. "That's good to know. That might mean something."

  "Hey." Chrysanthe patted Matthaios' leg. "Why don't you escort Virgil into the lab tomorrow?"

  Matthaios grimaced. "I don't—"

 

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