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“Never.”

Brian lifted a legal pad from the floor. “He's been oppressing me since eight this morning.”

She laughed as she slipped behind the counter, set her purse underneath, and took the pencil from his hand before looking over the sheet.

“Why is Pat Benatar between David Bowie and Jackson Browne?”

“B section.”

Lorrie closed her eyes for a second, and I could see her trying not to laugh.

“Dean?”

“Yes?”

“Can I fire him?”

“Get in line.”

“This is a hostile workplace,” Brian said.

She didn't ask where anything was. Lorrie knew where we kept the extra count sheets, found the second pricing gun in the drawer Brian always forgot existed, and stepped over Otis without breaking stride, scratching the top of his head as she passed.

The investigator’s card sat beneath the register, less than a foot from where she put her hand.

I could have told her then. For a few seconds, I even considered it. She deserved to know if there was something involving her boyfriend that might matter, and I could have made a reasonable case for warning her.

The problem was I wanted it to matter, so I shut the cash drawer and left the card where it was.

The afternoon passed faster once Lorrie started helping. We counted cassettes, checked invoices against stock, and tried to decipher Brian's handwriting, which he claimed was perfectly clear despite having turned REO Speedwagon into something that looked like a prescription.

When we found a box of promotional singles beneath the stockroom table, Lorrie sat cross-legged on the floor to sort them, and Otis moved over until his chin rested comfortably on her knee.

Lorrie seemed different from the way she'd looked on Sunday, when she'd come through the door carrying bacon and apologies and stared around Side A as though she hadn’t seen the place in years instead of weeks. Today she moved through the store easily, teasing Brian, answering customers, checking prices without asking me, and every so often catching my eye and smiling.

Around four, the phone rang.

“Side A.”

“Dean, it's Peter with Twin/Tone.”

I leaned against the counter while he talked about Minneapolis, regional distribution, the meeting he'd offered, and how long they could reasonably hold the opportunity before approaching somebody else. We agreed that by early next week, I’d have an answer for them.

I looked toward Lorrie while he spoke. She was sitting on the floor near the used bins with Brian, holding a battered copy of Rumours and insisting the bent corner dropped the value at least a dollar while Brian argued that Fleetwood Mac transcended bent corners.

A few minutes later he tried to put Blondie under D because Debbie Harry was the singer, and Lorrie grabbed the legal pad from his hands, rolling her eyes.

“You cannot reorganize the store around whichever member of the band you recognize.”

“People know Debbie Harry.”

“They know Mick Jagger too. Are you going to put the Rolling Stones under J?”

Brian frowned thoughtfully. “I hadn't considered it.”

“Don't.”

She laughed, shoulders shaking as she sat barefoot among the boxes, her sandals abandoned somewhere near the counter. One loose curl had fallen against her cheek.