“Okay, perhaps we can ease up a little now. I get the point, and I appreciate it. We’ll reserve the right to reopen the David-bashing at a future time. And I might need a shoulder to cry on now and then. Just a little.”

Cass reached across the table and patted Lucy’s hand. “You can cry on my shoulder anytime.”

“I might take you up on that, you know, so you might want to think twice.” Lucy began to tear up.

“What are you going to do?”

“You mean, am I going to divorce his sorry ass?”

Cass nodded.

“Yes.” Lucy took a deep breath. “One of the reasons I wanted to stay here a little longer was to have some time to get my game plan down, you know? What I want and how we’re going to tell the kids and all that. Oh, I know they’re not babies, but still, it’s going to be a big shock, and I need to find a way to tell them. I just need some space.”

“You can have all the space you want, Luce. If you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you want to be alone, that’s okay, too. And you can stay until you feel like going back. Whenever that might be.”

“You’re still like a sister to me.” Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. Again.

“Hey, you know what they say about blood being thicker, and all that.”

“I want you to know that I appreciate it. I’ll try to stay out of your hair.”

“Truthfully, with this sudden rash of murders, I’m almost never home. And when I am, for the most part I’m asleep.”

“You just go about your business. I’ll do my own little thing.”

“Oh, shit.” Cass frowned. “I meant to change the linens on your bed before you got here. And I was going to go food shopping.”

“I can do the grocery thing tomorrow, not to worry. And you can just tell me where the sheets are. Oh. Wait. Let me guess.” Lucy grinned. “Same place they’ve always been, right? Honestly, Cass, you walk into this house and it’s 1950 all over again. Nothing has changed since Gramma died.”

“I haven’t really had a lot of time to spend decorating, Lucy. For the past few years, I’ve been the only detective in town. We finally hired another one, and his wife decides she hates it here and she wants to go back to Wisconsin. So he, being a good husband, packs it in and leaves us in the middle of a couple of nasty homicides. Long story short, I’m back to being the only detective in town.” Cass blew out a long breath. “Which is a roundabout way of saying I just haven’t had the time.”

“I thought you looked tired. You have dark circles under your eyes. Hey, I have some really good eye cream that takes that dark puffiness away.” Lucy pushed back from the table. “Come on, if you’re finished eating, I’ll get it for you.”

“I’m finished eating-thank you very much for stopping to pick up dinner-but I’m exhausted, Lucy. I think I’ll turn in.”

“No, no, you need to try this cream first. Come on…”

Cass got up wearily and locked the back door. She swung her bag over her shoulder and followed Lucy out of the room.

“Leave the kitchen lights on, Cass,” Lucy was saying as she went up the steps. “I’ll come back down and clean up from dinner. I’ll be awake for a while yet.”

She reached the top of the steps and said, “I’ll just grab that eye cream for you…”

Cass stood in the doorway of Lucy’s room and watched her cousin open a satchel.

“What the hell do you have in there?” Cass laughed. “You clean off the department store cosmetic counters? What is all that stuff?”

“Oh, different products for different things. Vitamin C day cream, it has an SPF of 25. Vitamin E night cream. Makeup. Shampoos. You know.”

Cass, who used one all-purpose face cream-when she thought of it, which wasn’t often-and who had used the same brand of shampoo since she was a teenager, shook her head and took the small jar Lucy held out for her.

“Here, come in the bathroom and I’ll put it on for you.”

“Lucy, I can handle putting creamy stuff under my eyes. I’m assuming that’s where it goes.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Lucy turned on the light in the small bathroom, which was barely big enough for both women. “Give me that jar.”

Cass rolled her eyes while Lucy dabbed the cool white cream onto her skin.

“See, you don’t want to rub it in, you just want to smooth it on a little.”

“Right. Thanks. I’m going to bed now.”

“Cassie, you ever think we were maybe switched at birth?” Lucy grabbed her cousin by the arm and pointed to the mirror that hung above the sink. “You look so much like my mother, and I look so much like yours. You have the light hair, I have the dark.”

“Well, our mothers were sisters, Luce. We do share lots of the same genes.” Cass stared into the mirror. She and Lucy did share a strong resemblance. “But I never realized how much you look like my mom. And how much like Aunt Kimmie I look, now that you mention it. Of course, since we are four months apart, it would have been hard to switch us in the hospital, you know?”

“Seems like the resemblance grows stronger as we get older,” Lucy noted. “Not such a bad thing, though, right? They were both knockouts.”

“They sure were. Last time I saw your mother, she still looked fabulous. I can only dream of looking that good when I’m her age.”

“She takes good care of herself, though I think she gets too much of that Arizona sun. You’ll look great, too, when you’re in your fifties if you take care of your skin. Oh-I have a wonderful little concealer you have to try. It will just wipe away those puffs and lines under your eyes. I’ll just leave it in the bathroom for you to use in the morning.”

“And they say rest is essential, right? Well, I’m all for getting some rest.”

“Okay, then, I’m going to make up my bed and you go right ahead and crawl into yours. I have a feeling you’re going to give that under-eye cream a severe test.”

“Are you sure I can’t give you a hand?”

“Go to bed, Cassie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Cass yawned. “Lucy, I’m glad you’re here. And I’m sorry you’re having problems.”

“I’m glad I’m here, too. And as for my problems, well, a little retail therapy might help. Would you be upset if I did something about that sofa in the living room?”

“Whatever.” Cass laughed and went to bed.

Downstairs, a small notebook in hand, Lucy began to plan the bungalow’s makeover. If she couldn’t be happy, she could at least be busy.

FBI Special Agent Mitchell Peyton only wanted one thing on this Friday afternoon: an uninterrupted ten-minute block of time in which to finish his lunch.

He scowled as the fifth phone call in a row was put through to him. Okay, I’ll settle for five. He counted to ten, put down the sandwich he’d been about to bite into, and tried to talk himself into not picking up the receiver.

He wished he could make himself not answer, just once.

“Peyton.”

“Mitch, it’s John Mancini. Got a minute?” As always, the boss wasted little time with small talk.

“Sure.”

“Come on down, then.”

Mitch hung up and rewrapped his sandwich-his favorite, roast beef and provolone with horseradish on a crusty whole-wheat roll-in the heavy white butcher’s paper Andre’s Deli used for some of its best work. He put Andre’s latest masterpiece back into the bag it had been delivered in, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk. Not that anyone in his office would walk off with someone else’s sandwich, of course.

Yeah, right.

“Bunch of sharks around here,” Mitch muttered, and dropped the sandwich into the open drawer, then took a long drink from the bottle of water that sat open on his desk before setting out for the elevator.

“He’s expecting you. Try not to let him go on for more than eight to ten minutes. He has a meeting with the director at noon,” Eileen Gibson, longtime secretary to John Mancini, said without looking up from her computer when Mitch entered her office. “The coffee’s fresh. I just made it.”