Kennedy was contorting herself in front of the mirror behind the bar, trying to discern a weight loss. I looked down at my own thighs. Jannalynn was really, really slim. In fact, I’d call her skinny. God had been generous with me in the bosom department, but Jannalynn was the possessor of little apricotlike boobs she showed off by wearing bustiers and tank tops with no bra. She gave herself some attitude (and altitude) by wearing fantastic footwear. I was wearing Keds. I sighed.

“Have a nice night!” Kennedy told me brightly, and I straightened my shoulders, smiled, and wiggled my fingers good-bye. Most people thought Kennedy’s big smile and good manners had to be put on. But I knew Kennedy was sincere. She’d been trained by her pageant-queen mom to keep a smile on her face and a good word on her lips. I had to hand it to her; Danny Prideaux didn’t faze Kennedy at all, and I felt like he’d make most girls pretty nervous. Danny, who’d been brought up to expect the world to beat him down so he better throw the first punch, lifted a finger to me to second Kennedy’s farewell. He had a Coke in front of him, because Danny didn’t drink on duty. He seemed content to play Mario Kart on his Nintendo DS, or to simply sit at the bar and watch Kennedy work.

On the other hand, lots of men would be nervous about working with Kennedy since she’d served time for manslaughter. Some women would be, too. But I had no problem with her. I was glad Sam had stepped up for her. It’s not that I approve of murder—but some people just beg to be killed, don’t they? After all I’d been through, I was forced to simply admit to myself that I felt that way.

I got home about five minutes before Remy arrived with Hunter. I’d had just enough time to pull off my work clothes, toss them in the hamper, and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt before Remy knocked at the front door.

I looked through the peephole before I opened the door, on the theory that it’s better to be safe than sorry.

“Hey, Remy!” I said. He was in his early thirties, a quietly good-looking man with thick light brown hair. He was wearing clothes suitable for an evening visitation at a funeral home: khakis, a white-and-brown-striped broadcloth shirt, polished loafers. He’d looked more comfortable in the flannel and jeans he’d been wearing the first time I’d met him. I looked down at his son. Hunter had grown since I’d seen him last. He had dark hair and eyes like his mother, Hadley, but it was too early to say who he’d favor when he grew up.