“Today, he carefully stepped through McPherson’s house, where a single half-drunk glass of wine and a plate of sliced cheese sat on the kitchen counter. The knife she’d used to cut the cheese had been left near the remains of a wedge. “Snack for one,” he observed. “Maybe dinner.” When he arched a brow, she said, “I’m a single woman. I recognize a meal when I see one.” “If.”
