“Haven’t lost your touch,” he said.

“Maybe you’re losing yours.” I smiled and helped him to his feet. A good-looking guy: wavy blond hair, just starting to recede, a solid build and a knee-weakening grin. Mitch Dylan had been coming to the lodge since the summer I opened it—the same summer he’d been in the midst of an ugly divorce and needed a retreat as much as I did.

“I saw the No Vacancy sign,” I said. “You must have brought a full squad with you.”

“Pretty much.”

He leaned into the cab, grabbed my duffel bag from the passenger seat and started listing names. All cops. Mitch was a Toronto homicide detective. A good cop, and I say that with all sincerity. I like cops—I used to be one.

He led me the long way to the lodge, giving us time to chat. After five years, I won’t say there wasn’t an attraction, but it never proceeded beyond flirting with the idea of flirting. Nor would it. These days, there was no place in my life for anything more serious than a summer fling—and lately even those seemed more trouble than they were worth.

The lodge was a guy place—a rectangular block of a log cabin, completely lacking in architectural beauty. I don’t mind that, though I had added a wraparound deck and porch swings, so I could sit out on summer afternoons, drink iced tea, let the breeze ruffle my hair and get a good dose of girliness…right before I needed to split logs for the evening beer-and-hot-dog bonfire.

The front doors opened into the main room—a huge area dominated by a stone fireplace. The room was jammed with places to sit and places to set down a beer or coffee, none of it matching, little of it bought new. No one seemed to care, so long as they were comfortable. That’s what people come to a lodge for—comfort.

When Mitch and I walked in, the room was full of guys. They sprawled over the couches and chairs, feet propped on anything that didn’t move and some things that might. There were two women with them. I was pleased to see Lucy Schmidt—one of the few policewomen who didn’t act as if my professional disgrace was a gender-specific contagion. She walked over and hugged me, her sturdy, six-foot frame enveloping my five-six.

“Hey, you made it,” one of the men called from the sofa. He’d been here in the spring and I struggled to put a name to the face. “Mitch said you’d take us rappelling after lunch.”

“He did, did he?”