“I was promised a pillow fort,” he declared.

  We made a quick fort out of the sofa cushions, and Harry Junior came running into the living room, wearing a miniature version of McGlade’s PJs. Sam was with him, in her Mandalorian robe.

  “G’night, Papa. “G’night, Uncle Phin. Jolly good fort, mate.”

  “‘Night, Dad. ‘Night, Uncle Harry.”

  Hugs were exchanged, and the children sprinted off. McGlade and I laid on the bed, under the stacked cushions and blanket roof, finishing our snifters of scotch.

  “Remember when I filled that Super Soaker squirt gun with urine?” McGlade mused.

  “I remember, Harry Harry.”

  Harry’s full name was Harrison Harold McGlade. Silly, but it suited him.

  “Is Larrison a name?” I mused.

  “Huh? I was hunting for old chips in the cushions.” He popped something into his mouth, then made a face. “That was definitely not a Flamin’ Hot Cheeto.”

  “Sam used to snack on carrots.”

  “Used to?”

  “A few years ago.”

  Harry spat a wad of orange onto his hand, then put it on the armrest. “I gotta stop eating food I find in furniture.”

  “Probably a good rule to live by.”

  “Unless it’s a Pop-Tart. They’re better stale.”

  Jack came in, dressed in sweatpants and one of my old Motörhead T-shirts. She stretched out on the foot of the bed, resting her head on her hand. With her other hand, she beckoned for my whiskey. I passed it to her.

  “Wintergarten’s name,” I recalled my previous train of thought. “You couldn’t find police records for Larry or Laurence. But if Larrison is a name, can you check for that?”

  Jack sipped some booze and passed it back. “I never heard of a Larrison. But I did know someone named Larold.”

  McGlade leaned over the bed and tugged his laptop from his carryon bag. “I have the search parameters saved. Let’s give it a try. What’s your WiFi password?”

  “OLDNUMBERSEVEN, all spelled out, all caps,” Jack said.

  “Cute. Do the Jack Daniel’s whiskey people know?”

  Jack shrugged. “I’ve never gotten a cease and desist.”

  Harry typed with his good hand. “Okay, let’s try Larrison. ViCAT database… found some surnames, no first names. Ditto NCIC. County court records for Pennsylvania, got two hits. Some guy in 2003, drunk driving. County records for Colorado… nothing. Now Larold. Nada… nothing… zip… zilch.”

  “Newspapers?” I said.

  Harry yawned. “Lots of hits on Google and DuckDuckGo. Lemme refine. Nothing appears promising. But I may need to look closer. I just popped a sleeping pill, things are getting wavy.”

  “Shouldn’t take sleeping pills while drinking,” Jack admonished.

  “If I get too drowsy, I snort some meth. You still got insomnia, Jack?”

  “Not so much anymore.”

  “Hey now, what’s this? I’m searching county library databases. A lot of them have been uploading old microfiche films and using OCR to log them in. Lemme click on the scan.”

  He stared for so long I thought he fell asleep with his eyes open.

  “You just have a stroke, Harry Harry?”

  “Check these out. Local rag, from 1973.” Harry did some pinching and stretching on his laptop screen and passed it over. Jack and I looked at a scan of an old newspaper article.

  AMISH MAN ARRESTED FOR MUTILATION MURDER

  Larold Ezekiel Goodall, 21, was arrested for the murder of James Neil Clarsen, 27, on February the 15th. Clarsen, a known derelict, was discovered in an alley on 30th & Deighton Street, his throat cut and his body carved up. Goodall is suspected to be affiliated with Goodall Farm, an Amish community outside of Scranton.

  “Flip to the next page when you’re done,” Harry advised.

  I flicked the screen to the next article.

  RELEASE OF AMISH MURDER SUSPECT

  Larold Ezekiel Goodall, 21, was released in connection to the murder of James Neil Clarsen, 27, due to the disappearance of the sole eyewitness. Sheriff David Blaylock is currently pursuing other leads.

  “Promising.” Jack handed the computer back. “Can you find the arrest report?”

  “It didn’t show up during my global search. Lemme check the county website.” He did some typing, some reading, and some yawning, while Jack finished my whiskey.

  “The only online reports available for Mayfolk County start at 1998. Anything prior to that has never been uploaded. But it looks like Mayfolk has been in the news before. Fire. Killed three people, destroyed the court records. Guess the year.”

  My wife beat me to it. “1973.”

  McGlade nodded.

  “Convenientpants,” I said.

  “Ain’t it? No actual proof, but if Larry Wintergarten isn’t actually Larold Ezekiel Goodall who changed his identity because of a crime, it’s a pretty compelling coincidence.”

  “Can you search for the sheriff?” Jack checked the article again. “David Blaylock?”

  “Sure. I’m on it.”

  McGlade’s eyes drooped, and he began to snore.

  Jack and I exchanged a glance, and then I closed McGlade’s laptop and eased myself off the sofa bed. After we double-checked to make sure all the doors were locked, we peeked in on the kids, Sam in bed and Harry Junior in a sleeping bag on the floor, both of them zonked out. Duffy was lying next to Harry Junior, and he got up and followed us into our room and plopped down at the foot of our king size mattress.

  “Want to jog with me in the morning?” I asked Jack as I stripped down to my boxer-briefs.

  “Still too cold.”

  I climbed into bed and sidled up next to her. “Cold? You’re a Chicago girl.”

  “I’m a Chicago girl who didn’t like to jog when it’s cold.”

  I ran my hand up under her shirt. “Maybe I can help warm you up.”

  “I really want to,” Jack said. “But Harry’s right down the hall.”

  “You want him to join us? I can ask.”

  Jack giggled. That was still strange to hear. I was pretty sure I hadn’t heard her giggle at all during the first twelve years we’d known one another.

  She was happy. So was I. Something neither of us ever thought possible.

  It was surreal. Strange how life can defy expectations.

  Jack stretched out, kissed me. “I just don’t want McGlade bursting in, with his suitcase full of butt plugs.”

  “You sure? Maybe that could spice things up.”

  Jack swung a leg over me, her voice getting low and husky. “Do you think we need to spice things up?”

  “Not at the moment. Do you?”

  “I like married sex. We both know what we want. We can get right to it. No fumbling around. No insecurities. I get mine, you get yours.”

  “And who said romance is dead?”

  “I don’t need romance. I need the dick.”

  Which is about the most romantic thing that anyone can say. I kissed her, tasting whiskey and sin. “Think we can do this without you waking the household up?”

  “Me? You make gorilla sounds.”

  I managed to pull her shirt off with one hand, freeing her breasts, finding a stiff nipple. I put my other hand between her legs. “Really? Gorilla sounds?”

  “You could dub the porn version of King Kong.”

  Jack put her hand inside my underwear, and I yelped, high-pitched and very much unlike a giant ape.

  “Your fingers are icicles!”

  “My mouth is warm.”

  Jack began to duck under the blankets, but I caught her shoulder.

  “I haven’t showered,” I was loathe to admit, but admit it I did. “And I sweated my ass off today.”

  That was another nice thing about married sex. Honesty. I spent the day doing manual labor, and probably smelled like I barebacked a swamp monster.

  “Fair enough.” Jack rubbed her hands together, spat into her palm, and grabbed me again.

  Still cold, but things warmed up fast.

  It felt so, so good.

  After only a few seconds, my hips began to buck, and I realized just how long it had been since we’d made love. Jack and I had been so busy with the house, and so exhausted by the end of each day, we hadn’t carved out any time for intimacy.

  To actually be aroused and feel pleasure after—weeks? a month?—was incredible, but if Jack wanted to fool around she was going to be sorely disappointed because I was getting very close to a world record finish.

  I gently grabbed her wrist to get her to stop, and she looked up at me, confused.

  “I’m not going to last long.”

  Jack grinned, sexy and evil. “That’s so hot.”

  Then she was tugging at me again, and maybe a few ape-like grunts came out of my mouth, and right before the point of no return I used the strength of Superman and the self-control of a Lutheran monk to push her away.

  Jack took this as an opportunity to try and straddle me, which would have lasted two strokes, tops, if she succeeded, so I flipped her onto her back and tugged her sweatpants and panties down, lowering my head, and she put her palm on my forehead and pushed me back.

  “I haven’t showered either. Harry showed up before I could.”

  I snorted. “We’re both exhausted and stink. You still think married sex is the best?”

  “Just fuck me, Phin.” She gripped my hips. “I need it.”

  I also needed it. And I loved it when she talked dirty. I hadn’t been this turned on in a long time. Maybe ever.

  But I knew it would be over as soon as it started, and Jack deserved better than that.

  So I selflessly rolled onto my side and reached into the drawer of the nightstand for the anniversary gift I bought Jack last year.

  Like many long-time partners, we’d gone through a bunch of sexual phases. Sex ten times in a single day. Sex every day for a month. Sex in semi-public places. Sex in crazy positions. Bondage. Stoned sex. Edging. S/M. Role-playing. Cosplaying. Watching porn. Phone sex. Cybersex. Reading erotica (we both enjoyed Melinda DuChamp). And of course sex toys, the latest of which was the Hitachi Magic Wand, which we hadn’t used since we moved.

  “Phin, there are too many people in the house. It’s too loud.”

  I grinned. “You mean you’re too loud.”

  I plugged it in and brought it under the covers, then moved in to kiss her.

  Jack turned her head. “I’m serious. That thing… it’s too intense.”

  “I’m sure you can be quiet,” I assured her, knowing there was no way in hell she could be quiet.

  I was right. She couldn’t be quiet.

  Even on the low setting, Jack began to moan and thrash, and when I put my hand over her mouth—something she liked—she got even louder.

  I’d hoped keeping her off me would give me a chance to calm down, but watching her writhe was getting me more turned on than ever, and if she came I was worried I’d come as well, which would have been embarrassing and a severe blow to my machismo.

  Jack squeezed her eyes shut, biting the side of my hand, and she grabbed my hair and then—

  —blackout.

  A literal blackout. The Hitachi died. The clock radio winked off. The ceiling fan stopped humming and began to wind to a lazy stop.

  “I think we blew a fuse,” I said, rolling toward the side of the bed.

  Jack caught my wrist. “I need you inside me. Now.”

  I considered my options.

  The sex would be good. But fast. And I’d still have to get up and deal with the circuit breaker.

  Or I could deal with the power outage now, which would give me a chance to cool off, which would be better orgasms for both of us.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told her.

  “Phineas Troutt, don’t you dare leave this bed.”

  I left the bed.

  “Dammit, Phin.”

  “Three minutes, tops. I swear it’ll be worth the wait. I love you so much.”

  My wife didn’t reply. But when I grabbed my EDC flashlight off the nightstand and shone it on her, she was trying to look angry but unable to hide her grin.

  “Three minutes,” I promised.

  “If you’re not back in three minutes I’ll finish without you.”

  “Deal.”

  “You should probably put on a robe,” she lowered her eyes and covered her mouth, laughing.

  No kidding. I found a bathrobe, cinched the belt tight around my waist, and headed for the hallway. McGlade’s snoring was near the decibel level of an AC/DC concert, and I didn’t even bother trying to be quiet as I walked past him, because if he didn’t wake himself up with that racket then nothing could wake him up.

  The circuit breaker, or fuse box, or whatever it was because I really hadn’t taken a close look at it, was in the basement. I opened the door and peered down the stairs, anxious to finish this up and hop back into my marital bed.

  I walked down the wooden staircase at a quick but safe speed, and when I reached the bottom I tried to remember where the panel was. I panned the beam around and found it on the left.

  I got to it in a few strides, picking up some dirt on my bare feet, and opened up the metal breaker panel door, squinting at the two banks of black switches. None appeared to be tripped, and I began giving them each a wiggle with my fingers to check. After going through every switch, twice, and not finding the loose one, I finally figured it out.

  The main.

  Odd that the main got shut off. Maybe that Hitachi was more powerful than I thought.

  I flipped it back on, and heard a humming sound above me. I think it was the refrigerator compressor coming back to life. Back up the stairs I went, ignoring the clocks on the oven and microwave each blinking 12:00, the snoring McGlade, and made it back to the bedroom, expecting to see my wife in an erotic position.

  She was petting the dog. Which wasn’t slang for some illicit sex act. It was literally her petting Duffy.

  “Off the bed,” I commanded.

  Duffy didn’t move. He whimpered.

  “I think he’s scared,” Jack said.

  “He’s a watchdog. Being scared isn’t allowed in his job description.” I shoved the basset off the bed, then searched around for the Hitachi and switched it on—

  —and it immediately cut off.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  I went to get up again, and Jack reached for me. “Maybe you should leave it. Something could be wrong with the wiring. Because of the sinkhole.”

  Jack had a point. A cable might be loose. Or broken. We didn’t want the house to burn down while we slept.

  I set the Hitachi aside, then laid down next to my wife, moving my hand down her belly.

  “No problem. I can pick up where we left off.”

  Jack was still turned on, which turned me on. I nibbled her neck, rubbing her faster, listening to her breath quicken, a moan growing in her throat, and then—

  —beeping. Loud beeping.

  “Smoke alarm.” I immediately sat up and reached for my flashlight. Duffy, our faithful watchdog and vigilant protector, shoved himself under the bed to hide.

  We had seven smoke alarms. This one sounded far away. Garage? Basement?

  I hurried down the hall toward the noise, sniffing for smoke, not smelling a damn thing. In the kitchen I took an extinguisher off the wall, just in case, and zeroed in on the sound.

  Basement. Was the circuit breaker shorting out? Could Jack be right about the wiring?

  Five steps down the stairs, the alarm stopped.

  I paused, waiting, listening.

  I turned off the flashlight, seeking the telltale orange flicker of a blaze.

  I inhaled deeply.

  The basement was quiet. Dark. Still. Smoke-free, but the odor wasn’t the greatest.

  Smelled like a dead mouse.

  Switching the flashlight back on, I walked down the rest of the stairs and found the alarm, attached to a ceiling joist. I gave the test button a press, and the beeping hurt my ears, then quit after five seconds.

  Once again I examined the circuit breaker. Once again the main had tripped. I felt the panel, and the wires coming out of it, and the beams around it. No heat. No telltale sound of crackling fire or arcing sparks.

  I switched off the flashlight.

  Nothing winked in the darkness.

  Should I restore the power? Or wait until morning to mess with it?

  Threats to my family quelled, my most pressing issue was my horny wife, so I left the breaker alone and marched back upstairs, putting the fire extinguisher back on its wall hook, passing up a snoring Harry McGlade, and going back into the bedroom.

  Jack was still in bed. Duffy was still under the bed.

  “Fire alarm was in the basement. I didn’t find any fires. The main tripped again.” I wiped my dirty feet on the carpet, then climbed under the covers and reached for Jack.

  “Should we call the fire department?”

  “I don’t know what they’d do. There isn’t any fire.”

  “Is the alarm in the basement also for carbon monoxide? Maybe some sort of gas came up from the sinkhole.”

  “Carbon monoxide detectors are in the garage and the hallway. Not the basement.”

  My hand cupped Jack’s breast, and she stiffened.

  “Can you close the door?”

  “It’s closed.”

  “McGlade’s snoring is so loud he sounds like he’s in our room.”

  “He really is loud,” I agreed.

  “It’s been a really long day, Phin.”

  I sighed, knowing the sex window had closed. We’d been tipsy and daring and excited. But real life problems came up and killed the mood.

  “Yeah. It has.”

  I turned onto my back and faced the dark ceiling.

  “You can just climb on,” Jack said. “I can get back into it.”

  “I’m pretty tired too.”

  “Want me to finish you off?”

  Marriage sex is all about accommodation and fairness.

  But when the mood is gone, the mood is gone.

  “I think I just want to go to sleep.”