"This is out of control," he said. "This has to stop."

"I think they're planning a shower."

"Shit."

I got up and rinsed my plate, so I wouldn't be tempted to cut another wedge of lasagna. "How'd things go today?"

"Not that good."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Can't. I'm working with the Feds. It's not supposed to go public."

"You don't trust me."

He cut a slab of lasagna and joined me at the table. "Of course I trust you. It's Mary Lou I don't trust."

"I don't tell Mary Lou everything!"

"Look, it's not your fault. You're a woman, so you blab."

"That's disgusting! That's so sexist!"

He took a bite of lasagna. "I have sisters. I know women."

"You don't know all women."

Morelli considered me. "I know you."

I could feel my face get warm. "Yeah, well, we should talk about that."

He pushed back in his chair. "It's your nickel."

"I don't think I'm cut out for irresponsible sex."

He thought about that for a beat and gave an almost imperceptible nod. "We have a problem then, because I don't think I'm cut out for marriage. At least not now."

Wow. Big surprise. "I wasn't proposing marriage."

"What were you proposing?"

"I wasn't proposing anything. I guess I was just setting boundaries."

"You know, you're one of those women who drive men nuts. Men drive off bridges and drink too much because of women like you. And it was your fault in the bakery, too."

I narrowed my eyes. "You want to explain that to me?"

Morelli smiled. "You smelled like a jelly doughnut."

"You jerk! That's what you wrote on the bathroom wall in Mario's Sub Shop. You said I was warm and sweet and good to eat. And then you went on to describe how you did it! It got back to my parents, and I was grounded for three months. You have no scruples!"

His eyes darkened. "Don't confuse me with that eighteen-year-old kid."

We glared at each other for a couple of beats, and the silence was shattered by the sound of something smashing through Morelli's living room window.

Morelli bolted from his chair and ran for the front room. I was close behind, almost slamming into him when he stopped short.

A bottle lay in the middle of his living room floor, and there was a fire-blackened rag stuck into the mouth of the bottle. A Molotov cocktail that had burned itself out because the bottle hadn't broken on impact.

Morelli skirted the bottle, rushed into the hall and out the door.

I got to the door in time to see Morelli aim and fire at a retreating car. Only the gun didn't fire. It went click, click, click. Morelli looked at the gun in disbelief.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"This is your gun. I got it out of the sideboard when I ran through the hall. It hasn't got any bullets in it!"

"Bullets are creepy."