er hip was buzzing.

That didn’t seem right.

Flynn Daly’s left eye fought her, but she got it open. The right was far more stubborn. Didn’t matter, because all she could see through the caramel-colored haze created by her hair was her white bedroom wall, which wasn’t much to look at anyway. She gave up, closed her eye, and cursed her hangover.

Her hip buzzed again. Gah. She tossed herself over onto her back and shoved one hand into the front pocket of her jeans while using the other to shield her eyes from the sun, which was slicing its way through her blinds like a freakin’ Viking invader.

“Yeah?” she croaked, not bothering to check the caller ID. It was too early for that level of coordination.

“Good morning.” Freya’s voice, prematurely leathered from smoking, scratched its way through the line. Flynn waited for her sister to finish dragging on her cigarette and deliver the rest of the greeting. “Or, if you want to get technical about it, afternoon.”

“Afternoon? What time is it?” Flynn squinted against the sunlight, trying to focus on her clock. If she had bothered to set it after the last power outage, this might have done her some good. As it was, the blinking twelve o’clock seemed to mock her.

“It’s almost two o’clock,” Freya said. “How are you feeling?”

Flynn slumped back into bed.

“I’m fine,” she said, although, truth be told, she’d left “fine” at the second of the six martini bars she’d visited last night. “Hey, did you know about chocolate martinis? They sound all interesting and exotic, but really, they’re just strange. And they don’t get better after the fourth one. That’s a myth.”

“Hey, babe, if the phrase ‘chocolate martini’ wasn’t enough to tip you off, you got what you deserve.”

“Should my extremities be all... crackly?” Flynn lifted one arm; it felt like a big sack full of dry sand. “That can’t be right.”

“You’re dehydrated.” Drag. Exhale. “A long night of chocolate martinis will do that to you. Get some water and open the door. I have news.”

“Open the door?” Flynn dreaded the answer she’d get to her next question. “What door?”

“Your door, you doof. I’ve been standing out here knocking for five minutes. I almost left, but there’s a shoe on your welcome mat. I figured it was the kind of thing you would have noticed if you’d left your apartment today.”

“A shoe? Just one?”

“Glittery silver sandal with a wedge heel?”

“Oh. Yeah. I was wearing those last night.” Flynn lifted up on one elbow and scanned her bedroom floor. Well, shit. Where was the other one?

“Look, babe, I know you’re getting over this breakup with what’s-his-face by spending some time with your inner sorority girl, and it’s cute, really. But pull it together. We’ve got business.”

“Business? What business?” Flynn pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to relieve the throbbing. She’d gone all of her life without hangovers, and just as she’s staring down the barrelhead of thirty, BOOM. They hit. It was like getting her own personal flip-off from God.

Freya’s voice came through the line, camouflaged in a harsh whisper. “Your neighbor with the crazy eye is looking at me like he’d like to lower me lotion in a basket. Would you please let me in? Now!”

Flynn stared up at her ceiling, praying hard to the angels or the gods or whoever was in charge up there to make something happen. She didn’t much care what. They could start a fire, strike her with lightning. Floods, locusts, toads, whatever. Something to keep her from having to deal with Freya now. She loved her sister and everything, but two in the afternoon was too early in the morning to deal with her.

This is it, Universe, she thought. Now’s your chance. Bring on the toads.

But, of course, there were no toads. No reprieve. She knew there wouldn’t be. In a world full of wars, famine, and Bratz dolls, the angels or the gods or whoever had bigger things than her to deal with. She forced her legs over the side of her bed, and swore she heard a creak coming from her left knee.

Oh. That can’t be good.

“Flynn? Are you coming or what?”

Flynn flipped the phone shut and tossed it behind her toward the bed. Judging by the clang-skitter of it hitting hardwood and shooting into the wall, she guessed she missed. She shuffled down her hallway toward her front door, pulling her hair up into a knot and staking it with a pencil from the hall table before going to work on her dead bolt and chain.

First to enter the room was a light cloud of smoke; second, dangling from Freya’s pinkie finger, the wayward sandal; finally, Freya herself, looking like a fairy godmother, all glimmering blond curls and slightly overdone makeup. Her silk pantsuit was even pale blue, the preferred color of fairy godmothers everywhere.

Flynn coughed pointedly.

“You’re not allowed to smoke in the hallway,” she said, leading the way to the kitchen.

“I’m not allowed to smoke anywhere. So I smoke everywhere. Fuck ’em.” Freya put the cigarette out on the bottom of Flynn’s shoe and set them both on the breakfast bar as she settled onto a stool. “Baby, you look like shit.”

“Gosh, I’m so glad you came over, Fray.” Flynn whipped open the filter basket on her coffeemaker. “So. What possible business could we have on a Sunday morning?”

Behind her, there was a protracted silence, which was never the case with Freya. Freya almost never shut up, even in her sleep. Flynn dumped four heaping tablespoons of grounds into the filter, then added one more for good measure, and turned around to find Freya dialing on her cell phone.

“Hey,” Freya said into the phone. “I’m in.”

Flynn rested her lower back against the counter. After almost thirty years of being sisters with Freya, she felt pretty confident she’d be needing the support.

“Okay,” Freya said. “Call on her land line.” She glanced up at the old cordless phone on the wall. “That thing work?”

Flynn glanced at it, then back at her sister. She nodded.

“Freya,” she said, “what’s—”

The phone rang, cutting her off. Flynn stared at Freya, who motioned for her to answer it. Warily, as if it were a snake that might bite her, she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Flynn.” Richard Daly’s voice came loud and clear through the phone. “This is your father.”

Flynn slowly raised her eyes to Freya, who smiled encouragement. Freya never smiled encouragement.

Wow. This must be bad.

“Dad?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

“This is an intervention,” he said. “Your sister and I are worried about the destructive direction your life is taking. We feel it would be in your best interests to make a few basic changes.”

Flynn had to squelch a laugh as the absurdity washed over her. Except, knowing her father and her sister as she did, it was a sadly predictable absurdity.

“You’re doing an intervention?” she asked. “By phone?”

“I’m a very busy man, Flynn,” he said. “You know that. Freya’s there to give you all the details, but I felt it was important that I talk to you in person and let you know that I’m in total support of what she’s about to tell you.”

Flynn tightened her grip on the phone in her hand, having strange flashbacks to her sixteenth birthday when her father rented a carnival for her and her friends, then sent his assistant to oversee everything while he hopped a flight to Dallas.

“Wow,” Flynn said, not bothering to mask her chuckle. She’d learned, at about the age of sixteen, that it was easier on everyone if she just found the funny in these things and moved forward. “An intervention by phone. Don’t you think e-mail would have been more efficient? Or text message. Then you could use all that funky spelling.” She shot a glance at her sister. “So, it’s you two who are going to tell me what’s wrong with my life? Am I getting this right?”

Her father answered with his usual humorless stoicism. “Freya will explain. If you have any questions, feel free to call me.”

Click. Her father was out of the intervention. Flynn stared down at the phone in her hand, her eyes focusing on the end call button, which she pressed so hard her thumb went white. The giggle started deep within, rose through her throat, and by the time she released it, there were tears and shaking and pains in her side.

Intervention by phone. This is one for the books.

“Flynn,” Freya said after indulging her for a moment. “Okay. That’s enough.”

Flynn wiped her eyes and straightened up. She’d have to put on a serious face or this could take hours. “I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m totally serious. Completely into it.” She squelched the last of the giggles and took a deep breath. “Go ahead. Tell me what’s wrong with me.”

Freya held up her hand and began ticking off her fingers. “You’re almost thirty. You’ve never held a job for more than a year. You’ve never maintained even a casual relationship for more than six months. You live paycheck to paycheck, barely scraping by, living in a hellhole—”

“Hey!” Flynn said, mocking indignation. “This hellhole has free utilities.”

Freya sighed. “Some things have opened up at the office, and Dad wants you to come work with us. We have a great opportunity that starts tomorrow. Your starting salary is excellent, and Dad has a new apartment all ready for you at the building he just bought in Brookline. We’ll move you in while you’re gone.”

Flynn’s amusement sank like a stone. “Excuse me? What? Are you crazy?”

“Oh, come on. This is Southie, Flynn. It’s a miracle you haven’t been killed already. And you’re too old to be living like this. You’re going to be thirty in, what? Four months?” Freya leaned forward over the breakfast bar, her voice more plaintive than Flynn had ever heard it. “Do you really want to be hopping from job to job? Living in Southie? In your thirties?”

Behind her, the coffeemaker slowly gurgled its way through the pot. Damn, but that thing was taking forever. For ten dollars more, she could have gotten a model that allowed you to pour a cup of coffee before the pot was done brewing.

But of course, she hadn’t been able to afford that model.

“Look, Freya, I appreciate this and everything, but I’m not a drug addict and, last night aside, I don’t drink any more than you or Dad on an average day. I pay my taxes. I recycle. I vote. And this morning, I’m going to run out and get a paper and find a new job.”

“Wait. What?” Freya’s eyes widened. “You quit your job?”

Flynn shrugged. “What’s-his-face—his name was Bob, by the way—took it kind of hard.”

Freya laughed. “Oh, right. You broke it off with him. Should have known. Why? He didn’t ‘knock you over’?” Freya put the words in air quotes, making Flynn regret for the thousandth time the margarita night that had prompted her to confide that little gem.

“So, yeah,” Flynn went on, “I quit. Working together would be uncomfortable for everyone. Besides... I was just a secretary there. And I’m excited about trying something new.” Flynn turned back to the coffeemaker as a diversionary tactic, but it wasn’t done yet. Good God. This is the new millennium. There’s no reason to live like this.

If I worked for Dad, a betraying thought countered in the back of her mind, I could afford my own espresso machine.

“I know you made that promise to Mom,” Freya said in a softened tone. “But you have to know you can’t keep it.”

Flynn turned to look at Freya. “This isn’t about the promise.”

Freya raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, really.” Flynn scuffed the floor with her toe. “If everyone found passion in their work, who’d clean up the bathrooms, right? It’s great that Mom had it, but she was just lucky.” Flynn met Freya’s eyes and shrugged. “You know. If you don’t count the cancer.”

“Dad had a heart attack last week,” Freya said suddenly, like a Tourette’s patient off of her medication. Flynn stood frozen, stunned for a moment, then realized she wasn’t breathing and gulped in some air.

“What?”

Freya waved one hand in the air. “Okay, fine, it wasn’t a heart attack, per se. It was a little angina and by the time I got to the hospital, they were already releasing him. You weren’t there, and when I asked him why, do you know what he told me?”

“Wait a minute,” Flynn said, “he never called me. No one called me. Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“He didn’t want you coming out from Southie at night,” Freya said.

The coffeemaker gurgled its death gurgle. The coffee was finally ready, but now the idea of getting out mugs was too much for Flynn. She stayed frozen where she was, feeling as though she’d just been slapped.

“I don’t know... how am I supposed to respond to that? I mean, this is where I live.”

Freya reached into her bag and pulled out a carefully assembled report. Flynn walked over to her and took it, running her hand over the clear plastic cover that protected the title page, which had The Goodhouse Arms: Scheintown, NY printed on it in a fancy script font.

“Great-aunt Esther died.”

Flynn blinked, still staring at the report in her hand. “We had a Great-aunt Esther?”

“Grandmother Daly’s sister.” Freya nodded toward the report. “She left us this inn.”

Flynn flipped through the pages, her eyes catching on pictures of tree-lined streets and a gazebo in the middle of a rose garden, her mind able to digest only a couple of random phrases. Picturesque Hudson Valley location... locals refer to the town as “Shiny”... one of the oldest inns in the country... rich historic national treasure... She closed it and dumped it on the counter.

“What does this have to do with me?”

“I want you to go.”

Flynn let the silence hang for a moment before asking for the clarification she was pretty sure she didn’t want.

“Go where?”

“To the inn.”

“Dead Aunt Esther’s inn?”

“That’s the one.”

“In upstate New York? Where they have cows and nature and no T?” Flynn paused for a moment, her head swimming. “What would I do there?”

“Maintain a presence for a few weeks until we sell it.”

“Maintain a presence? What does that even mean?”

“It’s nothing really. Dad and I talked about it yesterday, and we decided that it would be the perfect way for you to get your feet wet in the company business. Besides, I leave for my spa week in Tucson tomorrow, and there’s no way in hell I’m missing that.”

“Ah,” Flynn said, smiling sideways at her sister, “the true motivations come out.”

“Look, you go there for two, three weeks max, and when you come back, you’ll have a desk and a real salary waiting for you at the office. It’s total win-win.”

Flynn tapped her fingertips on the counter. “It was really just angina? What is that? I mean, should we be worried?”

“We should... not make him worry.”

Flynn lowered her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. Her whole life she’d sworn to herself she’d never live off her father. She’d find her own way. She’d find a man that knocked her over and a job that she was passionate about and little woodland creatures would creep into her bedroom while she was at work and sew gowns for her. She sighed and glanced around her little apartment. Up until now, her lifestyle had seemed adventurous and romantic. Now, it just seemed selfish. Immature. Pointless.

“So... Dad doesn’t know that this intervention is really about him, does he?”

“Oh, it’s not just about him,” Freya said with a smile. “Your life is totally screwed up. I just figure, two birds, one stone.” Freya sighed. “Look. You broke up with your boyfriend. You quit your job. This apartment sucks. Will it kill you to just... try?”

Flynn met her sister’s eyes and decided that no, it wouldn’t kill her. Maim, possibly, but not kill. “How much should I pack?”

Freya’s smile widened. “Enough for two weeks. Three weeks, max. All you have to do is go and make nice. Be a presence. Tell the staff we’re not selling so they don’t all freak out and run off before Dad closes the deal. It’s hell to sell an active business that doesn’t have a functional staff in place.”

“Oh, God.” Flynn cringed. “You want me to lie to them?”

“This is business, honey. Everybody lies.” Freya raised a defiant eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Flynn cleaned up her expression. “Like what?”

“Like you just sold your soul to the devil.” Freya waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Fine. If you have to, you can go ahead and tell them we haven’t made any decisions yet, but make them feel secure that they’ll keep their jobs no matter what or we’ll have a riot on our hands. A riot with no staff.”

Once again, Flynn found herself asking a question she was pretty sure she didn’t want the answer to. “Will they keep their jobs?”

“We have no control over that. But even if the new owner brings in some of their own people, they’d be stupid not to keep most of the staff in place, so probably, yeah.” Freya patted Flynn’s hand. “It’s a total cakewalk. Trust me.”

Flynn smiled, hoping she looked confident. Or at least not scared to death. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

Freya slid off the bar stool. “When you come back, we’ll ease you into things at the office. Who knows? You might even like it.”

Flynn walked Freya to the door, imagining herself having martini lunches with investors, referring to hotels and apartment buildings as “properties,” and going golfing at the country club to help Dad swing a deal.

She didn’t think she’d like it. But she hadn’t liked being a secretary, either. Or an actress. Or a yarn shop clerk. Or any of the other seemingly endless list of things she’d tried.

If this kept Dad from worrying, then at least she’d be accomplishing something that mattered, which was more than she could say about anything else she’d done in the past eight years.

Freya pulled her pack of cigarettes out of her purse. “I have a hair appointment, but I’ll be back in an hour to get your measurements and order you some real clothes.”

“What’s wrong with the clothes I’ve got?” Flynn said, then followed Freya’s pointed gaze down to her sparkly pink top, and the chocolate martini stain on her left boob. Flynn raised her head. “So, I’ll see you in an hour, then?”

Freya nodded and left. Flynn leaned against the door and took a deep breath. This would be good. This would be a fresh start. And if she didn’t love it, if it wasn’t her passion, well so what? There was something to be said for responsibility. And security. And...

Her mind went blank as she realized that something momentous had just happened; she had finally run out of energy to rationalize. She pushed herself away from the door and headed down the hallway and into the bathroom. She opened the hot water tap and plugged the tub, then turned to the shelf next to the vanity to pull out a towel. It was slightly heavier than expected, but by the time it registered that something was on top of it, that “something” had already bounced off the top of her head and landed on the floor. When she looked down, there it was: the second silver sandal, lying sideways next to the tub. Flynn sat down beside it, staring at it for a long while before saying, “Now, how the hell did you end up here?”

“And you see? Here? I only have three radishes left!”

For any other guy, sitting on an industrial kitchen counter at three in the morning while a crazy redhead waved a handful of radishes in his face might be unusual. For Jake Tucker, it was just another Sunday night.

“Don’t get me wrong, Merce,” he said, tucking the notepad and pen she’d stuffed into his hands onto a shelf behind the biggest bag of beans he’d ever seen in his life, “I find root vegetable crime as fascinating as the next guy, but it’s officially an ungodly hour, and during those I have a strict policy that it’s either sex or sleeping. No exceptions.” He hopped off the industrial metal counter he’d been sitting on. “Night.”

“Wait.” Mercy dumped the radishes and shut the refrigerator door, her eyes flashing desperation before she motioned to the metal shelves next to the stove, where she kept the pots and pans. “What about the hardware that went missing last spring, Jake? What, like a saucier just gets up and walks out of the kitchen on its own?”

He chose not to ask what a saucier was; it was beside the point, anyway.

“Look. I appreciate what you’re trying to do.” Not really. “Really. It’s only the tiniest bit emasculating, and considering who I’m dealing with, that’s saying a lot.” He gave her a small round of opera applause. “Yay you. Good night.”

He tried to leave, but she maneuvered around him and blocked his exit. She was a full-figured gal, his sister, but she could move like a snake.

“But the saucier...” she started.

“Give it up,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice low and serious. People didn’t take him seriously sometimes, and by people, he meant his sisters. “I don’t need it. Just because I’m not a cop anymore doesn’t mean my life is over.”

She gasped, her mouth forming a little round O of horror. “Of course it doesn’t!”

“Good. So drop it. It’s no big deal.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

Mercy clasped her hands together, and her face reddened with the extreme effort of keeping her opinions to herself. Jake counted the beats internally.

One.

Two.

Three.

Mount Mercy burst. “Except it is a big deal. You loved being a cop. And you were good at it.”

“If I was really good, I wouldn’t have gotten fired.” Jake moved toward the refrigerator. “You got anything to eat in here?”

“If you’d just look at it from a different angle, I think you’d see there are other opportunities. For example, private investigations—”

“Oh, yeah, that would work. Shiny has a population of 4,128. There’s no way—”

Mercy held up one finger. “That’s 4,130. Janice Feingold had her twins yesterday.”

“Well, unless the twins need a background check done on Janice—which, actually, I would advise, she’s got the shifty eye—it’s not enough people to support a private detective operation. So just let it go, will you?” He plucked three grapes off of a bunch and shut the door. “By the way, if the mystery of the missing grapes should come up, I’ve already solved it.”

Mercy gave him an attaboy punch on his shoulder. “See how good you are?”

Oh, holy mother of all that is holy, Tucker women are impossible to crack. Even at three in the morning.

“I like the Goodhouse Arms. I like bartending. I like my life. Everything’s fine.”

“Everything’s great!” Mercy’s head bobbed up and down in time with the rhythm of her fierce loyalty.

“I’m”—he searched for a word that might make her back off—“fulfilled. I’m in touch with my authentic self, and it hasn’t even made me go blind yet. I’m actually the most self-actualized man in America.” He popped a grape in his mouth. “Not that I know what self-actualized means, but I know you girls are all worked up about it, so that’s what I am. I’m better than that, actually. I’m happy.”

“You,” she said, emphasizing each word with a gentle but still uncomfortable poke to his chest, “are ecstatic.”

“Good. We agree. So knock it off, okay?”

She blinked, feigning innocence. The youngest of his four older sisters, Mercy could bat an eyelash like nobody’s business. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I just finished seven hours behind the bar and you’re dragging me in here to talk about, what? Radishes? And sauciers? I mean, it was bad enough when you asked me to trail Derek, who is—”

Mercy held up one hand. “He was acting strange.”

Jake raised his voice and continued over her. “—possibly the most devoted husband in the history of the world.”

Mercy kept her game face on. “He’d had some late nights.”

“He’s an obstetrician. They do that. Besides, the man has seen every vagina in Shiny. I think he’s secure in his choice.”

Mercy’s face set into a decided pout, and Jake felt a familiar niggle of guilt working its way into his head. Which was stupid. Four sisters and a mother, the pout should not work on him.

But it always did.

“Okay,” he said, softening his tone a little. “I know you mean well, and I know it’s just because you love me, but I don’t need you to create little mysteries for me to solve. Okay?”

She gasped like a matriarch in a Tennessee Williams play. “I can’t believe you think I would make all this up!”

Jake leaned back against the counter. “I know all about you girls and your secret meetings.”

“Secret meetings?”

“Yes. Where the whole bunch of you sit around and talk about my life and how I’ve screwed it up and then you devise little plans to fix me when I don’t need fixing.”

“Secret...?” She blinked. “What, you mean Sunday dinners?”

“Exactly.”

“They’re not secret. Mom invites you every week.”

“Semantics. The point is, I’m not depressed about the way my life is going. That’s just the sort of thing you girls make up in your heads because you can only scrapbook for so many hours a day.”

Typically, in his family, a good sexist comment would change the subject right quick. Unfortunately, Mercy wasn’t taking the bait.

“So, are you taking my case or not?”

“No.” Jake tossed the last grape up in the air and almost caught it in his mouth. It rolled under the refrigerator, and he flashed Mercy his most disarming smile before going to retrieve it. “If you really think there’s something going on here, go to the police and file a report.”

“I can’t go to the police,” Mercy said. “They’d laugh at me. This is why I need a private detective.”

Jake tossed the grape in the garbage and wiped his hands on his jeans. “What you need is a prescription. Good night.”

He pushed his way out of the swinging door that led to Mercy’s kitchen, and down the back hallway toward the bar, where he’d left his jacket. He could hear Mercy’s feet as they padded determinedly behind him.

“You know what I’ve realized about Tucker women, Merce?” he asked.

“Wait. We’re not done talking.” Mercy huffed behind him. “Would you slow down?”

“Tucker women are like little terriers. They seem harmless, even cute sometimes, but then they chomp down on your pants leg, and you can kick as much as you want, but you’re just never getting that leg back.” He pushed through the swinging door that led into the bar and grabbed his jacket off the hook on the wall. “Go home. Derek’s gonna worry.”

There was a long pause, and Jake had to turn around to make sure his sister was still with him. She was, just standing there watching him, her eyes steeped in loving concern.

“We’re not worried that you’re unhappy,” she said. “We’re worried that you’re obsessed.”

Well. At least that was a new argument.

“I’m not obsessed.” He leaned against the bar, not near foolish enough to think that would end the conversation.

“I saw you poking around in Esther’s office,” Mercy said, settling on a bar stool next to him.

He shrugged. “I was helping pack up her stuff.”

“Really? Well, FYI, when you pack, you usually put files into boxes, not pull them out.” She paused for a long moment. “You were looking for something on Gordon Chase.”

Jake kept silent. He hadn’t found anything, so there was no point in confessing.

“Look,” Mercy said, a sigh in her voice, “I hate him, too. What he did was horrible, but he didn’t kill Dad.”

“He talked him into selling that land for almost nothing when he knew that developer was coming in,” Jake said. “Then he turns it around and makes a million while Dad works himself to death? How is that not killing him?”

“Dad didn’t work himself to death.”

“He was killed at work. Same difference.”

“Gordon Chase is not—”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Jake said. “Pick a root vegetable. Any root vegetable. How do you feel about turnips?”

“—responsible for everything that goes wrong in this town, Jake. He’s not responsible for what happened to Esther.” She shrugged minor acquiescence. “I might give you points on the thing with Elaine Placie, but still. It doesn’t make this obsession healthy.”

Ah, Elaine Placie. Now there was a topic he really didn’t want to revisit, so he kept quiet.

“I loved Esther as much as anyone,” Mercy went on, “but the woman was eighty-seven years old with a heart condition. She died in her sleep. It doesn’t get any less suspicious than that.”

Jake angled his body toward Mercy. “She tells me Gordon Chase is bugging her to sell, and then two weeks later, she dies suddenly in her sleep? At the very least, it’s a hell of a coincidence.”

Mercy looked at him skeptically. “So, what? You think he had an old woman killed for a real estate commission?”

“Maybe. Maybe he’s getting a kickback from the family, who had a lot to gain from Esther’s death. This niece that’s coming tomorrow. Maybe she knows something.”

Mercy sighed. “You’ll get no argument from me that Gordon Chase is a total shit, but I don’t care about him. I care about you, and this isn’t good for you.”

Jake shrugged. There was no point in telling Mercy that the convenient way in which things seemed to work out for Gordon Chase was no coincidence. Nor did he think it was a coincidence that a laptop taken from the office of an associate of Chase’s—a laptop that might have had evidence implicating Chase in a real estate scheme—went missing from the evidence locker the very night that Elaine Placie distracted Jake at the station, a distraction that ended up costing him his job. Mercy’d heard it all before, and arguing now would just make her think she was right about him being obsessed.

Which she wasn’t. He wasn’t obsessed.

He just wanted to take the bastard down. Hard. With bruising, and possibly the occasional whimper.

“We love you, Jake. We just think it’s time for you to grow up.”

Jake tightened his right hand into a fist. He hated this part the most.

“Look, I’m only thirty. There’s still plenty of time for me to get a real job and find a nice girl with good birthing hips.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about,” Mercy said. “We’re talking about you taking something seriously. Something besides Gordon Chase.”

“Okay,” Jake said, stretching out his fingers and forcing a smile. “It’s late. I’m tired. You’re delusional. Let’s just call it a day and we can start with fresh haranguing tomorrow, okay?”

“If you need a mystery to solve—”

“I’m not investigating your fucking radishes, okay?”

Mercy’s eyes widened and Jake knew he was real close to getting his ass good and kicked.

“I’m sorry. I’m a jerk.” He put one arm around her shoulder. “I’m the jerkiest jerk in Jerkville, okay? I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

She reached up and cupped her hand around his chin, squeezing his mouth into an involuntary “O.” She knew he hated this, and was doing it deliberately, but he had to put up with it because he’d been an ass.

Those were the Tucker rules.

“Look, you were stupid. You let Gordon Chase get the best of you and get into that evidence room.”

“This is you being supportive, right?” Jake said, his lips still puckered under the pressure of Mercy’s fingers as she tightened her grip.

“Gordon Chase is a big stinky turd man, but that’s his problem. Karma will take care of him.” She released his face and gave it a loving, if not particularly light, slap. “You need to drop it and move on with your life. And if that means investigating my fucking radishes, then that’s exactly what you’ll do.”

She smiled her bright, cheerful smile, and Jake smiled back.

“All right. Can I go home now?”

She got up off the bar stool. “You are dismissed.”

He motioned for her to go first, flicking off the light as he followed her out of the bar.

She was right. He knew she was right. It was time to let the Gordon Chase thing go. He also knew he had no intention of doing that, but it had to be worth some points that he at least knew she was right.

He was sure of it.