I didn’t see much of the apartment last night. I peek my nose into rooms as I make my way toward the smell of cooking eggs—one, two, three bedrooms, what looks like an office, which seems a little weird, and what I can only describe as a wet room. A miniature pool sits in the center of the last room on the right-hand side before I reach the kitchen, perhaps only ten-foot square, but I can tell by the dark aqua hue to the water that the thing is deep.

“Good morning,” a voice says behind me. Michael. I spin around and there he is in an exquisite black suit, complete with black shirt and black tie.

“Good morning,” I reply. “Why do you look like you’re going to a funeral?”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Because we are going to a funeral. Zeth didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“The Duchess.” Michael gives me a sage nod. “Charlie posted an obituary in The Seattle Times. He’ll be there, which means—”

“Lacey probably will, too.”

Again, another nod. “I have a dress ready for you. It’s hanging in the kitchen.”

Sure enough, when I make my way through to the kitchen, a white garment bag is hooked through a handle of one of the head-height cabinets, and Zeth Mayfair is standing at the cook top, stirring a pot of what can only be eggs. He glances over his shoulder, sees me, and stops what he’s doing. I can’t help but notice he looks tired. “Did that little shit wake you up?” he asks me.

“Who? Michael?”

“No. Ernie.” He points behind me—at the rumpled-looking Schnauzer standing right behind me. His fur is all curly and sticking up. Doggy bed head.

“I woke him up, actually,” I tell Zeth.  “He wasn’t too happy about it.”

Zeth grunts, masking a small smile. “He could clearly give a shit about being away from Lowell. Poor bastard’s probably never gonna forgive us when we give him back.”

Ernie cocks his head to one side, his strange little Schnauzer eyebrows seeming to pull together into a comical frown.

“I think you may be right.”

Zeth turns back to his half-forgotten task and takes the pan off the heat, serving up spoonfuls of scrambled eggs onto pre-buttered slices of toast. Three plates for the three of us. He hands one to Michael, one to me, and slides cutlery toward us across the kitchen countertop.

I have to say I’m a little shocked when I eat some of the food and it actually tastes like scrambled egg. If anything, I would have expected it to taste faintly carcinogenic—a little burned, or at least way too salty. As it turns out, my man can at least cook the simple things. Michael salutes Zeth with his fork and carries his breakfast out of the kitchen to eat elsewhere.

“You didn’t tell me about the funeral,” I say between mouthfuls. Zeth leans across the countertop, the bulk of his considerable frame suddenly very much up in my personal space.

“I was a little too pleased to see you were still alive.”

“Were you now?”

He nods. “Plus…” an awkward grimace forms on his face, “this whole thing with Lace—”

“I know. She might not want to come back with us.”

Cold, sharp steel flashes in Zeth’s eyes. “I don’t plan on giving her a choice.”

Honestly, taking Lacey might be for the best. Removing her from the situation altogether. But all I’m imagining right now is a showdown at a graveside and a handful of very scandalized people who are trying to grieve, and I can’t see it ending well. I can’t think of anything productive to say, so I keep my mouth shut. Zeth heads off to locate Michael, saying something about a plan of action.

Once I’m done with my breakfast, I find both of them fussing over Ernie in the lounge area. They don’t see me for a moment, and watching them scrubbing their hands through the dog’s fur, scratching his belly and roughhousing with him, makes me break out into a smile. Neither of these men would have struck me as dog people, and yet the evidence is right there in front of me. They love that freaking dog.

Zeth sees me first. He stands up, wiping his hands on jeans. He clears his throat, pointing at Ernie. “We were just checking him for…intestinal worms.”

“Right. How did that go?”

“All good.”

I can barely keep a straight face. “That’s reassuring. I’m going to get ready now. It looks like we have a long day ahead of us.”

******

St. Finnegan’s Catholic Church is a tall-spired, ancient-looking building on the outskirts of Hunt’s Point. The bells are tolling as we arrive, which means the Duchess’s casket has already been taken inside. Michael parks the car on the street outside the church—there’s plenty of space available—and Michael, Zeth and I head inside. The dress Michael bought for me is respectful yet clings to my figure at the same time, perhaps showing a few too many curves considering the setting. It’s not as though I ever met the Duchess, though. And despite the stressful nature of our reason for being here this morning, Zeth’s hands strategically brush those curves as he helps me out of the car, a gentle, burning reminder of our little cane game. We make our way up the pathway to the church entrance, and I do my best not to enjoy his touch a little too much.

The interior of St. Finnegan’s is typical of any Catholic church. Lots of dark wooden pews, stained-glass windows, gold filigree, and a ten-foot-high depiction of Christ on the cross at the far end of the building in the apse. The smell hits me like a blast from the past. Dusty books, wood, wax, incense, shirt starch—these are the scents of my childhood.