Where are you?

On the job. The Marsh house. Lee cleared us to work. Where r u?

At your place. Can I borrow your truck?

Sure.?

I need to go buy some plywood to board up the doors. Custom doors, may take a while to replace.

We boarded the doors before we left. You need paint. I went by your office before here. He didn’t spell anything right. Roy would paint for you, but I’m keeping him busy. I’ll send you the name and number of the couple of guys he says would do it pretty quick if you don’t have it. The same ones who painted for you before.

I’ve got it. What about your place?

Soon. I’m not on Main Street. Go home, eat some pasta salad, make the calls.

You okay?

Better. Should be home by six. Late start today.

I’ll be there. I love you.

Aww, first time in a text. Weirdly, I love u 2. Later.

He pocketed his phone, looked around. Wished he could do something for her.

Then it came to him, and seemed so simple. So right. He went home, took care of it, made the calls, ate a little pasta.

When she got home, just after six, he had the outdoor table set—with flowers he hoped he was allowed to cut. And wine ready to pour.

“Well, look at this.”

Darby surveyed the table while Zod raced over to Zane as if they’d been parted for years.

“I figured we both deserved it.”

Her gaze shifted to his. “Don’t we just.”

“I made crudités.”

“You did not.”

He shot a finger at her. “Did. I figured it would start off our three-course meal.”

“Okay, what are the other courses?”

“Pizza and Ring Dings. The crudités are a sop to adulthood.”

“I think I’m in love.”

He took a firm hold of her face, kissed her. “Better be.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, sighed. “Let me go up, get a shower, change so I can be worthy of this amazing meal.”

“I set things up in the guest room, the front-facing one with the window seat.”

She tipped back her head to look at him, then as her eyes blurred, just lowered her brow to his shoulder.

“I figured we deserved that, too,” he added.

Because she didn’t trust her voice, she tried to nod, then just tightened her grip.

“Hang on a second,” she managed.

He did, just hung on in the quiet evening with the odd little dog sniffing their shoes.

“You’ve got a way, Zane. Such a good way. I told myself to suck it up. The boarded doors, the bullet holes. It’s not the room, it was the man. It’s a good room.”

“It’ll be a good room again. But for now, we’ve got others.”

Steadier, she drew back, smiled at him. “Now I’ve got you all sweaty, and probably transferred some stone dust. You oughta come join me in the shower.”

“You have the best ideas. Just let me feed the dog.”

“He ate on the job.” Taking Zane’s hand, she started inside. “Later he can have a you-know-what while I sample your crudité.”

In the shower, Darby sloughed off the sweat and grime of the work. With the mating of wet, slippery bodies, she sloughed off the stress that had curled tight in her all day.

She felt it release, slide away like the water down the drain. Even knowing it would come back, perhaps because she knew, she could steep herself with him, with what they gave each other.

Under the pulse of water, skin slick with soap, hands greedy and gliding, they pushed away the ugliness, embraced the joy.

They kept the door closed on painful reality, sent Zod into spasms of delight with a Milk-Bone. And lighting candles, pouring wine, they talked of anything but what had shattered the peace in the dark hours.

With the light softening, the dog snoozing under the table, Zane poured more wine.

“Ready?”

Darby took another sip, nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Start by telling me how Traci handled it.”

“I’m glad her mother was there, even gladder I took her sister. She needed both of them to help her through the ‘It has to be my fault’ stage.”

“She’s been beaten down, physically, emotionally, so that’s knee-jerk. There were women in my support group who automatically assumed blame for everything. My kid failed his spelling test—must be my fault, terrible mother. It rained yesterday when it wasn’t supposed to, so I must’ve done something wrong.”

“I saw that plenty with abuse victims back in Raleigh.”

“Which is why having you there helped her, too.”

“Hope so. In any case, she’s going to stay in Asheville for a while longer. She’s scared of the Drapers, and she’s not wrong.”

“Do you think they’d try to retaliate, against her?”

No point, he thought, trying to soften it up.

“Payback’s a religion to some people. Darby, you need to know at least right now, they’re twisting this whole thing around so somehow I set it all up, killed Clint.”

“That doesn’t make sense on any planet.”

“Doesn’t have to. I think Horace Draper’s beginning to see that, but it doesn’t mean they won’t try to strike back. And you’re part of that. Not just because you were here, because you’re with me, but because Clint targeted your place.”

“I’ve already figured that out. Maybe he had some problem with me before. He might’ve been the one who broke into my place.”

Frowning, Zane studied his wine. “It doesn’t seem like his style. Not the breakin, but the fact nothing really valuable was taken, nothing was wrecked. Still … you could connect his whacking off on your doorstep with taking your underwear. He was already pissed at me,” Zane considered, “because I wouldn’t take him on as a client. So … maybe.”

He reached over for her hand. “Either way, you need to be careful.”

“We both do.”

“We both do. Meanwhile, Lee’s already matched his prints to your place, my office, the truck, the paint cans, and so on. The idiot Clint was staying with gave Lee a good timeline, up until said idiot passed out. His truck, his paint supplies. They’ll have cause of death, ballistics, a tox screen pretty quickly. The DNA will take a little longer, but Clint’s was already on file.”

She’d thought of all that during the good, physical work of the day. “But none of that’s going to point to who killed him.”

“No, it’s not.”

Reading his face, she tapped a finger on his hand. “You have theories, Mr. Prosecutor.”

“Maybe.”

Now she circled her hand in the air. “Please proceed.”

“All right then. Clint wasn’t what you call a popular guy, not outside his family and a few idiots like Stu Hubble. He pissed off a lot of people. He’d get drunk, start fights, or get grabby with somebody’s wife, girlfriend, sister. He hounded people like the McConnells, he poached on posted land. There’s a guy who lives farther up in the hills who claimed last year that Clint and his brother Jed poisoned his hunting dogs.”

“Well, God!” In response, Darby rubbed a foot over the snoozing Zod.

“Couldn’t prove it, but—Lee let me read Clint’s file—he was adamant. So a lot of people didn’t think of Clint kindly, you could say.”

“And your theory is one of them saw him sneaking up here, followed him, took the opportunity to pay him back.”

“That’s one of them.”

“You have another that worries you more.”

“Yeah. Graham Bigelow.”

“He’s locked up.” Alarmed, Darby spoke quickly. “Lee checked. Emily said—”

“Graham’s locked up,” Zane confirmed, “but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a part of this. He’s spent nearly two decades in prison. He knows how the culture works inside. There’s a chance he could have made a deal with another con who was up for release, or knows somebody on the outside. Somebody who’d come here, watch the routine, look for an opening—maybe break into your place and know not to leave prints, not to disturb too much.”

That idea, even as a theory, sent a shiver down her spine. “But … why kill Clint?”

“Stretch the theory. He’s right there. Take him out, cause trouble, upheaval. It took smarts, if we go with straight bad guy, not to take the weapon, not to leave prints again, not to break in and go after us. Smart would know cops would come pretty quick. Smart bides its time, looks for the next opening. If something happened to either of us now, who would Lee have to look at first?”

“The Drapers.”

“You got it. And while he is, whoever did it walks away. I put more into the first theory, but we can’t discount the second.”

“The second’s closer to one of Brody’s.”

Surprised, Zane paused in pouring the last of the wine. “Brody has a theory?”

“A couple, and both slide close to both of yours. Mean doesn’t always need a reason, just an opportunity.”

“Ain’t that the goddamn truth.”