"No."

"It's right there!" I pointed to the shelf.

Solomon pointed to the clock. "Your guests are due in twenty minutes."

"No!" I glanced to the clock, blanching.

"Yes."

"How did that happen?"

"I could explain time, but I'm sure you learned clock-reading in kindergarten."

"Ha-ha. What do I do? The beef won't cook in twenty minutes! And the roasted potatoes take forty minutes at least. I'm screwed! I'll never live this down. I'll be the Graves failure all over again!" I squealed.

"They'll forget."

"They're Irish stock and this is food. They will never, never, John, never forget!"

"I can fix this."

I surveyed the kitchen. Not only was it a huge mess, but also a terribly unproductive mess. It would take twenty minutes at a minimum to clean it; and I still wouldn't have enough to feed my expectant and ravenous family. "I'm a failure."

"You're not a failure."

"Yes, I am," I wailed. "I wanted such good results. I wanted to make an effort and feed everyone, without anyone going hungry or dying of food poisoning."

"You must go to some strange dinner parties if that's your description of a good result."

The mess in the kitchen didn't spell good result to me and I looked around, swallowing hard. There was no way to fix this. Solomon was being way too calm while my heart thumped loudly in despair. On the plus side, I had enough carrot sticks and hummus to feed a small army.

"Go upstairs, and take a shower and get changed," Solomon instructed, taking me by the shoulders and guiding me out of the kitchen. "I'll fix this."

"It's hopeless. There's a takeout menu on the fridge. If we order now, we can put things into serving dishes and hide the evidence before anyone gets here."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"But..."

"Shower, now."

I made a funny grunting noise, but conceded defeat before stomping up the stairs with all the grace of a depressed sloth. Closing the door to my bedroom, I tossed my day's clothes in the hamper and laid out clean pants and a blouse. Midway through my shower, wafts of something delicious alerted my senses. It wasn't my shower gel. I dried and arranged my hair into a sleek ponytail, and attended to my wound, before getting dressed. Slipping my feet into flats, the mouth-watering aromas continued to make my stomach rumble.

Solomon was carrying dishes to my small dining table by the time I arrived downstairs. A stack of plates, interwoven with napkins, lay on the table, and another dish held the flatware. A vase filled with pretty, fresh flowers served as the centerpiece amidst several hot dishes. "How could this happen?" I asked, breathlessly in wonder.

"It's easy when you know how."

I pointed to the vase. "Where did the flowers come from?"

"Your garden."

"And all this food?"

"You bought it. I just prepared it."

"But it looks like a dinner party!"

Solomon laughed. "That's the idea. Easy fork buffet."

"You're perfect. Too perfect, John. You're unreal. And you saved the day."

"Not exactly the first time," said Solomon as the doorbell rang.

"I will never forget this," I told him, kissing his cheek before I crossed the hallway to open the door. My parents stood on the porch and my mother looked appalled. "We should never have left you to your own surveillance! You got shot again!" she admonished me before reaching out and pulling me against her in a rib-crushing hug. My side winced.

"Barely," I muttered, through gritted teeth.

"Did you shoot back?" asked my father, holding a digital tablet and a large bag in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other.

"No."

"Is it true the shooter used your own weapon on you?" he continued.

"Kind of."

Dad tutted. "What were you thinking, Lexi?"

"Alexandra wasn't thinking, were you, Alexandra?" My mother shook her head as she relieved Dad of the bag he carried and thrust it into my hand. "We brought you a vest, dear, and it's not for keeping warm. It's made of Kevlar."

I peeped into the bag and grinned. "Thanks!"

"Don't look so happy. It's to discourage you from getting shot again, not to encourage you." Mom steamed past and cuffed Solomon on the head.

"Ow!" he said, ducking too late. "What was that for?"

"For letting my daughter got shot."

"I wasn't there."

"Exactly! When are you going to give Lexi her job back? Hmmm?"

"I..."

"Shot, John! My daughter was shot!" my mother yelled.

"Only a little bit," I murmured, holding my thumb and forefinger millimeters apart. "And I don't want..."

"Be quiet, young lady. You were shot!"

"I know. I felt it. You don't have to keep saying it."

"Your job is dangerous! This never happened when you worked as a temp."

"Lexi can come back to work with me anytime," said Solomon.

Mom turned to me, her face determined and proud, like she magically fixed everything. "There! See? You have your job back."

"I have a job, Mom, and I'm working it." After today, I was pretty impressed with myself too. I had hard evidence to show Detective Donahue and a solid plan in play. It was only a matter of time until we had the real perpetrator in cuffs.

"No job is worth getting shot at," murmured my dad.

"No job is worth getting shot at," said my mother over the top of him.

"Unless someone else's life is at stake." I crossed my arms in an act of defiance. My mother glared at me; and I glared back. I probably wouldn't have won, given how badly my gunshot wound ached as the torn skin knitted itself back together. Besides, I really needed a drink, but I was also fully committed to giving the glaring contest my all.

"Your life would be safer if you worked with your boyfriend," Mom pointed out.

"How?" I wondered aloud, thinking back to all the cases Solomon and I worked. There were some distinctively unsafe cases.

"You would have backup."

That was a hard point to argue with. Mom was right. Working alone, I didn't have backup to readily call upon, but I did have backup that night. "I had backup," I told her. "Maddox."

"Where were you?" Mom asked, narrowing her eyes at Solomon. "She had to call her ex for backup. Do you ever seriously want to get married?"

The tablet in my father's hand chirped, and my dad grinned. "Look who's on the screen!" he said, turning the tablet around. My nephew and niece, Sam and Chloe, waved at me. Sam was speckled with chicken pox.

"Can I see your gunshot wound?" asked Sam.

"Can we see through it?" asked Chloe.

"Yeah!" yelled Sam. "Can I put a straw right through you?"

Garrett's face loomed onto the screen. "You have the right to remain silent," he said. "Please exercise that option." He slid out of view, leaving two disappointed looking children staring expectantly at me.

"No, you can't put a straw through me," I told them, and their faces fell a little more. It was hard to disappoint them. No, wait, it was pretty easy.

"I told you that was a dumb question," said Chloe to Sam.

"Can we see the bullet?" asked Sam.