Stephen managed the ghost of a smile. J.D. noted that Stephen’s black hair was shaggy, his brown eyes filled with distrust, and his muscles so tense that J.D. half expected him to make a run for it at any moment.

“Is your mother here?”

The kid’s gaze fell to the floor and he seemed to be studying the intricate floral patterns of a throw rug at the foot of the stairs. “She’s . . . she’s not around right now.”

“She’s in jail!” a little voice chirped from the landing. A pixieish face, pink-cheeked and surrounded with black curls, was stuck through two balusters.

“What?”

Stephen shot his sister a killing look. “Hush, Chrissie.”

Jail? J.D. eyed the boy. “What’s she talking about?”

“Nothin’, Chrissie doesn’t know what she’s talkin’ about.”

“Do too!” the imp retorted indignantly.

Stephen worried his lip for a second, then shrugged, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “Okay. Mom’s down at the police station.”

“Why?”

“Dunno,” he mumbled, obviously lying. “I just got stuck baby-sitting.”

“I’m not a baby!” Christina dashed down the stairs on her chubby legs. The blue-black curls bounced and her eyes were wide with wonder.

“You’re here alone?” he asked.

“Ellie’s downstairs.” Christina dashed across the hall and through a swinging door leading into the kitchen.

“Who’s Ellie?”

“Mrs. Ellingsworth.” Stephen shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “She lives in one of the apartments downstairs and when Mom has to work, Ellie looks after Chrissie.”

“And you?”

Stephen’s spine stiffened. “I don’t need a baby-sitter.”

This was getting him nowhere fast. J.D. set his bag and briefcase onto the floor. “So . . . when will your mom be back?” Something was up—something the kid didn’t want him to know about.

“Dunno. Soon, I guess.” Stephen was prickly, but must have heard the rudeness in his voice because he added, “You can, uh, wait for her here or in the parlor, if ya want . . . or—”

Christina barreled out of the kitchen and ran to one of the narrow, beveled-glass windows flanking the front door. “Mommy!” she cried with delight. She threw open the door and raced down the steps.

J.D. turned and saw Tiffany climbing out of a sedan she’d parked in the shaded driveway.

Tall and slim, with shoulder-length black hair that framed an oval face, she was more than attractive; she was downright gorgeous, the kind of woman who expected and received more than her share of male attention.

“A male magnet,” his mother used to say.