I glanced down at our chunky pug. Stella was sniffing around at my feet, ever hopeful that a rotisserie chicken would appear on the floor in front of her. This had happened once before, when James was carving and the chicken slipped off the counter. Stella pounced on it, and James chased around after her, trying to retrieve the chicken, while Paige and I looked on, laughing so hard we had to lean against one another for support. Now, Stella looked up expectantly at me and wagged her tail, as curly as a pig’s.

“She’s fine. Snarfling around for food, as usual.”

“Oh, don’t be mean! Give her a cookie.”

Stella suddenly turned and stared intently in the direction of the front foyer. A moment later, the doorbell rang. She let out a bark—more of a high-pitched yip—and scampered off toward the door.

“Honey, there’s someone at the door,” I said into the phone. “Can I call you back later?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m on my way to meet some friends. We’re having a study group for our sociology exam next week.”

I smiled. Back in my day, that had been code for I’m sneaking out to get drunk on cheap beer. Then again, Paige took both her lacrosse and her scholarship seriously, so knowing her, she probably was headed off to study.

“Talk to you later,” I said, and we hung up.

Stella was standing guard, pacing in front of the door and throwing her round head up as she barked. I think she liked the way it sounded, echoing around the two-story space.

“Steady on, girl,” I told her.

I scooped the pug up and opened the door. A blast of heat hit me—it was late September, which had always been my least favorite month of the year. While the weather was cooling off in other parts of the country, summer was still in full force in South Florida.

A man I didn’t recognize was standing on my front step. He was a composite of greys—short-cropped steel-colored hair, ashen complexion, light grey suit.

“I’m Detective Michael Forsythe,” he said. “With the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office.”

“Monroe County? Where’s that?”

“The Keys.”

“You’re a long way from home, then,” I said. While our town, Shoreham, was technically considered South Florida, the Keys were much farther south. It took at least two hours to drive there if the traffic was light, which it rarely was.

“I’m looking for James Cabot,” Detective Forsythe said. “Is he here?”

I smiled at the detective and held out my hand. “I’m Maggie Cabot. James is my husband. He’s still at work. Is there something I can help you with?”

The detective shook my hand but did not return my smile. “No, I need to speak to your husband. Do you know where I can find him?”