Harris squinted at the picture of the acne-ridded kid. He looked a bit like Oliver Appleby, especially around the eyes and cheekbones. If the cops hadn't matched the face, they wouldn't have shown Agatha the photo, right? But scrubbed, handsome, glam Oliver and this scruffy nerd? It seemed like an impossible transformation.

"The name we have for him is Robert Ward," Lonita said. "His family was unconventional."

"How so?" Harris asked after a glance at Agatha's pale face.

"Rich, eccentric, dead-set on being left alone."

A stifled chuckle—or more likely a hiccup—escaped Agatha. "I've met people like that," she whispered.

"I doubt it." Lonita shook her head, lips pinched. "The Wards' pursuit of privacy was extreme. When Robert was ten, they moved to a yacht. Sailed year-round, mostly through the parts of the world where they could stay off the grid."

"It must have been lonely for a child," Agatha said and Harris' heart gave a little lurch. Did she pity this snake? If this guy was Oliver, he wanted the info that would get the jerk arrested, rather than a sob story about his tough childhood on some luxurious yacht.

"Not to mention risky. When he was seventeen, the yacht sank in the Caribbean," Lonita continued, and Harris squirmed in the police station's firm chair. Dammit, was she trying to make Agatha feel for the guy by laying tragedies thick?

"Robert's parents, along with most of the crew, drowned. Young Robert somehow made it to shore," Little Joe added like on a cue.

"That's suspicious, isn't it?" Harris swiveled his head between the two cops. No way this was a trick to get Agatha to save Oliver because the police were powerless against him. They weren't in a Korean drama for chrissake! Any minute now, Lonita would start on his stalking, arson, and other crimes.

Lonita shrugged off Harris' eagerness for the arrest-leaning tidbits. "The sea buried many mysteries. What's relevant to our case is that Robert was a minor, so he had to wait to take over his parent's estate. He moved to Milwaukee, something that made his case worker remember him. As in, why not New York or San Francisco?

"Other than that oddness, though, he lived like an ordinary rich kid. Enrolled into a private school. Amazed teachers with his abilities. Could have gone to an Ivy League college with his money and grades. Instead, he did exactly what his parents did: sailed into the sunset as soon as the formalities were over upon reaching the age of majority."

So far the yarn looked rather hopeless to Harris, but... "And the fingerprints? Why were they on file?"

"A lab in his school burned down, resulting in serious damages to the building. No classes for two months."

Agatha's hand convulsed under Harris' hand. Her icy-cold skin turned damp with sweat. He rubbed her hands, trying to warm them up. "And?"

"He made an impression on the investigating officer, but the charges had to be dropped. Not enough evidence."

Agatha squeezed Harris' hand in a vise-like grip, nearly cracking his bone. It was amazing how much strength hid in her delicate frame. "So, that's Ward. What about Oliver Appleby?"

"A childless British family adopted a boy from somewhere in Eastern Europe, changing his name to suit them. As it often happens, they had two more children right afterward," Lonita said.

Harris frowns, waiting for a connection between the man they knew as Oliver and this British Oliver to come up.

"When he was a teen, he found out, and that created a rift. It only grew wider thanks to his penchant for 'get rich quick' schemes, involving his adopted family's money. By the time he was twenty, he was estranged from everyone he knew. Then, he found a sap who'd go into sourcing coffee with him..."

And the rest was history, people would usually say at this point. Only, it's not so simple. "But he is not our Oliver? Despite the coffee?"

Lonita showed them another photo on her laptop, a mugshot from some place Harris had never heard of. The guy in the picture was blond, slim, and blue-eyed. Handsome, if you liked insolent smirks. "That's Oliver Appleby, six years ago."

Agatha gasped and shivered next to him. "This isn't Oliver. No. No!"

"At least not our Oliver." Harris took off his hoodie and wrapped it over Agatha's shaking shoulders. The two men could pass for cousins. Maybe even brothers. But they couldn't be the same man, even accounting for the years since the mugshot was taken.

Lonita held up a finger. "This Oliver got badly messed up in Columbia. Beaten within an inch of his life, then abandoned for dead. Picked up by a charitable couple. Apparently, they liked him so much, they paid for a restorative cosmetic surgery in Brazil, since his face was a pulp. Hence, the change in his appearance once he resurfaced."

"Bullshit!" Harris shouted. "Just bullshit! Did nobody question it?"

Little Joe chewed his lip, going "Mmm."

Did he not see what his love for suspense did to Agatha? Harris gritted his teeth. "Nobody at all?"

"The Brits reissued his papers and sent him off from Cartagena. You can't blame them, not really. Why would anyone impersonate a loser? And who needs trouble in their backyard?"

"Agatha, did Oliver ever tell you any of it? Shared childhood memories? Cursed his family for not supporting him?" This outburst earned Harris a grimace from Lonita. He wasn't here to ask questions, her stern gaze reminded him.

Literally, the only reason for him to be here was to support his girlfriend, and he was failing at this task, because Agatha's teeth chattered. "Sorry," he muttered, wrapping his hoodie tighter around her suddenly pointy shoulders. "I got carried away. I'll keep quiet."

Agatha stared at the two photographs on the screen, side by side. "Oliver—my Oliver—mentioned he had family in England, but said I wouldn't want to meet them. I didn't press further, because...."

She stammered, and Harris finished for her in his head—because I didn't really care—and absurd warmth coated his heart, feeding on this tiny detail. She never truly loved Oliver, even before Harris entered the scene. So he wasn't an interloper.

"That family couldn't tell us much when we followed up," Little Joe admitted. "They expected someone had snuffed Oliver off in a far-away place. A proud British tradition, and all that."

"Maybe their instincts are right." Harris rubbed his skull, squeezed his eyes to suppress the first vestiges of a headache. Real Oliver had to die, so Ward could steal his identity without the fear of discovery.

Little Joe did more cryptic muttering before unveiling his trump card.

"After Cartagena, 'Appleby's' luck changed." Joe took the name in air quotes, not satisfied with pitching his voice for emphasis. "His bank accounts grew incredibly fast. One could even say suspiciously fast."

The cop leaned back to enjoy the effect, making Harris want to punch him in the face. But Agatha's fingers threaded through his as tight as snares. "So... so this Ward guy had stolen Appleby's identity to introduce himself formally after meeting me in the hospital," she asked in a quivering voice, "but why? Why me?"

"We hoped you could shed some light on his interest in you, Agatha," Lonita said. "Was Ward family connected to yours at any point?"

"I wish I had the name before the meeting. I could have asked my uncles. Maybe they would--" She shook her head, before it dipped to her chest and her shoulders sagged. It was painful to watch how little faith she had that her folks would ever help her.

"We will ask them," Lonita said.

Agatha shot her a grateful glance, and so did Harris. "I suspected nothing. Oliver—my Oliver—knew I wasn't a glorious prospect for a gold-digger. Or, at least, I wasn't until last week, when my uncles signed the paperwork acknowledging me as capable."

Harris promised to keep his trap shut, but to hell with promises. For his family, he'd break more than rules. "They only did it because she got engaged to Oliver Appleby. A decent husband material, and all that. Maybe it was a long game for him."

Both cops leaned in, taking in this extra. Harris could almost see the wheels turning as they figured out how this fit into their case.

It puffed up his chest that he could contribute even a shovelful in digging Oliver's grave, but from a certain point of view, he was a pot calling the kettle black. He was a broke guy allegedly in love with a suddenly-heiress. People would question his motives and gossip would spread like wildfire. If he could unzip his heart and show the truth to everyone, he would.

But failing that...failing that...

His stomach was all in knots, so he barely heard Lonita and Agatha talking about the perks of Leungs accepting her back into the fold. What position would she assume in the Leung corporation? Had the power-of-attorney been dissolved? Stuff like that.

Agatha's answers ticked off every box. Basically, she had truly become a rich and important woman in the eyes of the law, and it went with a surprising ease.

Harris wasn't the only one to find this suspicious.

"Be careful, Agatha." Lonita said, tilting her head over the notes that Joe passed to her. Then her glance swiveled to Harris. "You as well. We have enough to make Appleby a person of interest in your case, but all the evidence is all circumstantial. I think he's growing impatient, and impatient people make mistakes. It could be a mistake that lets us trap him. Or it could be a mistake that ruins your life. So, be very careful."

Harris stifled his sigh for Agatha's sake. ′I'll defend her with my life,′ would have been too melodramatic, but his arm draped over the back of her chair. Oliver would have to go through him to get to her. "We'll be careful, Officer."

"Thank you for everything," Agatha said, before standing up. Her knees wobbled, so Harris grabbed her elbow. She didn't even seem to notice, setting one foot in front of another as they navigated the corridors of the station.

The gaze of her sparkless eyes stayed dead ahead once they exited outdoors. Blank, she was completely blank.

"Let's walk a little?" Harris asked.

At last, a simple, "Sure" from her. Without much energy, she slipped her arm free, grabbed his hand, and they walked towards Lake Michigan.

Right away, he knew he'd been stupid to suggest it. Maybe the lake was sparkly, and the breeze was refreshing, but no matter how much the wind ruffled Agatha's hair and pinked her cheeks, it wouldn't revive her after the shocks she'd just suffered. What they needed was a cozy place. Somewhere she could lean on his shoulder, and he could whisper in her ear that it too should pass. That they would be okay, and he loved her so much, he felt like his heart was going to burst.

It wasn't his heart that saved the day. It was his stomach. It issued forth a growl so loud, the downtown traffic couldn't cover it up. Rude, yes. But also fortunate.

He slapped his forehead and cried out with forced cheerfulness. "Breakfast! Agatha, we forgot all about breakfast."

One twirl of his neck—and he spotted a perfect nook. On the corner of the street, on the second floor, with a floor-to-ceiling window. Round tables and swirly plastic chairs filled the inside. Every surface was a patchwork of neon sticky notes upon which the patrons wrote whatever they would.

This was their cozy place away from the wind, the danger, and the heartbreak.

He tugged her by the hand up the staircase toward the growing smell of baking pastry, vanilla and, yes, the cinnamon, but Harris didn't even wrinkle his nose. He wouldn't let any negative thoughts intrude into this. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and this breakfast felt like the most important meal of his life. He'd eat the hated cinnamon with a smile. He'd do anything for Agatha to come back from whatever dark place she'd retreated into.

The cafe was half-full, but he found them a table by the window, in the corner. The wall was shaggy with the post-its, and Agatha's gaze scans the messages.

Harris left her to read—or stare at—the cute scribbles and went to the counter.

The barista was checking Agatha out with far too much interest for Harris' liking.

"Hey there," Harris plastered on a grin, fighting the urge to snap his fingers at the barista. Privacy on the side, yes?

Behind his back, an excited voice already chirped, "Could we do a selfie? Please?"

He twisted around. Yup, some dumb teens circled Agatha. Shouldn't those kids be at school? Nope. Not on Sunday.

Ablaze, blah-blah-blah, Ablaze... wafted to him. His heart ached as he saw a fake smile grace Agatha's lips. She just went through the motions, and he... he was stuck ordering coffee.

The barista finally sprung to life, though her glance also swiveled to Agatha all the time. How their order came up correct was a mystery to Harris. Still, he appreciated the small wins. "Thank you," he said to the barista without a shade of irony.

After fumbling with their phones, the girls retreated to another table—and thank goodness for that too. Their heads lolled together by the time Harris set a platter with a funnel cake and all the fixings before Agatha. Then he sucked on his teeth. It was just kids. It could be worse. It will be much worse.

"I hope it's for sharing," Agatha said, eyeing the cake with a flicker of alarm.

Everything was for sharing from now on, or so he hoped. He brandished two forks at her. "You bet!"

He wasn't quite done with his foolish-happy-in-love grinning when the barista called out, 'Harris! Agatha!′ with their coffee. Names were so much more personal than an order number, but for once Harris wished they were just numbers. Everything about their date would make rounds on the internet.

Everything was for sharing from now on... wasn't that what he wished for just a moment ago? He squared his shoulders. "I'll get it."

Agatha didn't respond, staring down the two-layer weave of the deep fried dough. He laid the forks by the plate, stuffed his hands into his pockets and returned to the counter.

She didn't move an inch by the time he returned with coffee.

So, he set the cups, sat down, picked one fork and speared a lightly cooked strawberry with it. "Open up the hatch, my love."

His heart thumped as Agatha delicately bit the cake, then sucked the syrup off the fork.

Without looking away from her, making sure she was here, he broke off the crunchy corner and brought it to his own smiling mouth. As soon as his tongue touched the pastry, the flavor hit him. He winced, but chewed.

Her brow lifted, light coming back into her eyes. "Cinnamon? That bad, eh?"

"Yup, cinnamon. I wanted to challenge myself. It's not terrible. Lots of vanilla and..." And something else. Was it cardamom? He could do cardamom. Or pretend it was cardamom.

For a bit at least.

With a groan, he grabbed the coffee cup and gulped half of it to cleanse his palate. Some things he could change his mind about. Turns out, cinnamon wasn't one of them.

But the main thing, his silliness, it worked. Agatha chuckled, with an actual smile curving her lips. "Honey, you're horrible at pretending. Go get something else. You're hungry!"

He picked a strawberry off the plate and dipped it in cream; looked at her from between the lowered eyelids; letting the gravelly note dominate his whisper. "Starving."

She blushed to the roots of her hair. "Harris, you're impossible." Zero outrage, plenty of glee, just like he liked it. She was back with him, in this cafe, in this moment, not sifting through her terrifying past with Oliver.

He picked a magenta sticky note pad, one of dozens on the tables. "Let's make it official, shall we?"

She slid her chair over, breathing in his ear to see what he was going to write.

AGATHA + H

Harris started in big bold letters, but graphic design was hard. He'd run out of space on the note by the second 'R' of his name.

Agatha deftly slipped a blue sticky note to him to solve the problem.

AGATHA + HARRIS

This looked kind of empty for two sticky notes, so he drew a heart around it. It turned out crooked.

Agatha giggled. "Harris Sarkisian! Gimme that, before you hurt yourself!" She swiped the black marker from him and added a small heart instead of a dot over 'I'.

"There, that's how you do it!" She tilted her head to the side to survey their note.

"It's the cutest damn thing I'd ever seen," he declared.

But it wasn't enough for Agatha. She filled the edges with a border of hearts. She added a curvy border. And XOX.

Then she pinned their note on the wall behind them, next to a terse letter to some no-good Kelsey and a sticker so similar to theirs, a smile tugged on the corners of his lips. "Beautiful."

Agatha giggled. "This is so high-school, Harris, oh my gosh!"

Exactly. Innocence was what they needed right now, and a huge serving of it.

"Well, not like my high school—" she said with a sigh.

"Not like mine either. But like a really awesome high school. Let's make it so." He puckered his lips. Harris and Agatha, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Kissing. Kissing away the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that his fix was too easy.

And that this was all too perfect for Oliver not to show up and ruin it.