Copper Lake Confidential. Marilyn Pappano

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      “I’ve never not had pets,” Stephen was saying. “Being a vet was all I ever wanted to do. More or less.”

      “So you got your dream. Good for you.” Being happy was all Macy had ever wanted. A comfortable life. A husband she loved who loved her back. Kids to cherish. Stability.

      You’re stable now, she reminded herself, forcing even breaths. She had some unsteady moments, but they were fewer and further between. She was capable and competent. She was.

      “What do you do?”

      She blinked, then refocused on Stephen. “Do?”

      “Do you work? Have a job besides taking care of this place?”

      “I, uh…no.” She hadn’t worked since a part-time job in college. As soon as Mark had graduated, she’d dropped out and they’d gotten married. He’d never wanted her working then, and she didn’t need to now. Between his death and his grandmother’s a month later, Macy had enough money to support herself, her daughter and whatever family Clary might one day have for the rest of their lives.

      “Well…” Stephen shifted, tugging on the leash. “I’ve got to get this guy home and shove a couple pills down his throat. Remember, let me know about the flowers. I’ll take it out of Scooter’s cookie money.”

      She murmured something—goodbye, she thought—and watched them leave, the dog walking quietly alongside his owner, but they faded from her thoughts before they were gone from sight.

      Sure, she had money to support herself and Clary, but…what would she do? What would fill her days? What would she contribute? How would she show Clary how to be a kind, compassionate, responsible, productive adult?

      And the most terrifying question of all: With all that free time, with nothing to do but take care of Clary, how would she ever stay sane?

      A few times on the way to the curve that marked the end of Woodhaven Villas and the beginning of the Lesser of the World, Stephen looked back over his shoulder at the Howard house. The first two times Macy stood in exactly the same position, not looking after them to make sure the flower-smashing dog wasn’t coming back, but just standing there, not looking at anything, it seemed.

      The third time she was gone.

      She’d dressed as if she belonged in the house designed not so much to be a home but a showplace. He didn’t know much about women’s clothes, but the sleeveless dress and heeled sandals she wore just looked expensive. So did the gold-and-diamond watch on her wrist and the rubies and diamonds in her ears.

      Oddly enough, she hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring. Surely she didn’t live in that place alone.

      Maybe she didn’t live there at all, he thought with a grin. Maybe Scooter had interrupted a burglary in progress. Or maybe the family was away on a trip and she’d broken in to live there as a squatter. Maybe she was the maid playing dress-up in the boss’s clothes, or—

      As his own house came into sight, he reined in his imagination. It had run wild for as long as he could remember, so he did try to exercise restraint from time to time. But wouldn’t it be a hoot if she were some kind of upper-class thief?

      Though the Howard house, as the last house in the development, was less than a half mile away, there was a whole galaxy in that distance. He had nine hundred square feet, compared with Macy’s four or five thousand.

      His backyard was big enough for a grill, a few chairs and a few swipes with the lawn mower, while in hers he’d glimpsed extensive gardens, a pool and what looked like a guesthouse tucked into the rear corner. He had wood floors and furnishings that ranged in age from ten years to way older than him. He had a living room, a kitchen big enough for him and Scooter, a bedroom, a bathroom and an office. He was a happy camper.

      Even in her mansion, Macy Howard hadn’t looked very happy.

      Scooter took his meds eagerly—two pills slipped inside slices of hot dog—then went to gulp down a bowl of water. “You want a walk as a reward for taking your pills? You could just say so. I’d rather walk with you than chase you down, yelling that silly name. Who in the world names a beautiful boy like you Scooter?”

      The dog grinned at him, water dripping from his beard, then went to his bed and stretched out.

      Stephen made sure the kitchen door was locked—since Scooter had learned to turn the knob, that was his newest escape route—then went across the narrow hall to what was supposed to be the master bedroom. He slept in the smaller room at the front of the house, just big enough for a bed and chest, and used this room as his office.

      Bookcases lined two walls, both packed full. More books were piled on top and on the floor and also lined the windowsills of all four windows. A few posters from favorite movies hung on the walls; magazines and papers all but obscured his computer, and two large dry-erase boards, covered with notes, took up the rest of the space. The room was cluttered and messy, but that was the way he liked it when he worked.

      He’d settled in his chair, just able to see the dog through the doorway, and jiggled the mouse to wake the computer when his phone rang. Fishing it from his pocket, he answered without checking caller ID. He knew who it was; his sister was a creature of habit. “Hey, Marnie.”

      “What are you doing?” Her usual question.

      “Working.” His usual answer. “How’s your day?”

      “It’s fine.” She sounded distracted. She was normally eating lunch when she called, usually while doing something thoroughly disgusting for her job as a lab geek for the Copper Lake Police Department. “Are you busy this weekend?”

      He looked to the wall where a calendar was supposed to hang, then remembered its thumbtack had come loose a few weeks ago and he’d never gotten around to putting it back. “I work Saturday morning, I think. Why?”

      “I actually meant Saturday night.”

      “Why?” he asked again.

      Marnie’s sigh was long-suffering. “A friend of mine—well, a friend of a friend of mine—needs a date for a thing, so she asked if I’d ask if you’d go.”

      “Which friend?”

      “Sophy.”

      The muscles in his neck relaxed. He liked Sophy Marchand—had been out with her a couple of times without Marnie acting as intermediary. “Why didn’t Sophy call herself?”

      “No, she’s my friend. Her friend is Kiki Isaacs.”

      In the kitchen, Scooter gave a little whine. The dog had excellent hearing—and taste in women. Kiki was a detective with CLPD, pretty, whiny, aggressive and didn’t know the meaning of the word subtle. The few times he’d seen her off the job, she’d still been armed, even though she could probably heave him like a javelin. She was an in-your-face type, and frankly, she scared him.

      “Uh, you know, Scooter’s been sick this week.”

      On cue, the dog lifted his head and gave a pitiful wail. Switching the phone to the other hand, Stephen fished a cookie from the bowl on the desk and tossed it to him, mouthing, Good boy.

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