“Which suggests,” D.D. commented, “that Patrick has reason to be stressed, but perhaps is not yet suicidal. I mean, why go postal now? You’d think if he’s gonna lose it, it’ll be eight weeks from now when he can’t find a renter, doesn’t get the money, etc., etc.”

“Logically speaking, yes,” Alex agreed. “But he’s still stressed, the wife’s still stressed. Maybe someone said something last night at dinner. The daughter charged too much at the mall, the expenses for the older son’s football uniform were higher than expected. All you need is a trigger. Things unfold from there.”

“Patrick can’t stand the thought of his family ending up homeless, his kids becoming wards of the state …” D.D. filled in. “All of a sudden, Patrick convinces himself that killing his own family is the right thing to do. And our solid Christian neighbor turns into a family annihilator.”

The waitress appeared, sliding oval plates smothered in red sauce in front of each of them. The smell alone made D.D.’s mouth water. She loaded her chicken parm with grated cheese and went to town.

“Brings us back to the kid,” she managed after the third bite.

“Ah, but which one?” Alex asked with an arched brow. He was taking more time with his lasagna. A patient man, she observed. Probably had to be for working crime scenes. She wondered what had taken him from the field to the classroom, and what now made him want to be out in the field again.

“I mean Ozzie,” she prompted. “You know, the one that kills squirrels for sport. Why? You’re not suspecting the oldest, are you?”

The neighbor Dexter Harding had had some news: The Harringtons were not a family of five after all. They were a family of six. Patrick had an oldest son from a previous marriage who was currently in Iraq. In honor of Private William Edward Harrington, aka Billy, Denise often set a sixth plate at the table. The Harrington version of tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree.

It appeared they didn’t have to worry about a mystery guest anymore. Unfortunately, Billy Harrington was about to get some very bad news from home.

“We should at least confirm the kid’s in Iraq,” Alex said.

“Well, duh.”

He grinned at her. “How’s the chicken parm?”

“Love it.”

“I can tell.”

“How’s the lasagna?”

“Almost as good as my grandmother’s.”

D.D. eyed him suspiciously. “With a last name like Wilson, you want me to believe you know about red sauce?”

“Ah, but my mother’s a Capozzoli.”

“I stand corrected. With a name like Capozzoli, your grandmother can probably make some gravy.”

“She taught me everything I know,” Alex commented.

D.D. paused, fork midair. “You can cook?”

“It’s my passion. Nothing like a Sunday afternoon rolling out pasta while simmering a nice sauce Bolognese.”