“Give me his info and I’ll give him a call,” Troy said. “I’ll be honest with you, Rod. I’ve got a bad feeling about this woman. I hope I’m wrong, but my gut is telling me that this incident with Duchess is only the beginning.”

21

Hours later, Troy stood outside the closed doors to the master bedroom. He clenched his hands into fists and sucked in air as emotions clamped like iron bands across his chest.

Once again, he’d tried to go into his room. Once again, it was locked.

What the hell are Monica and Grace doing in there that requires them to lock the door?

He hadn’t seen either of the women since they had gone to put the kids down, at least two hours ago, and he knew they were holed up in the bedroom again, behaving like teenage girls on a sleepover, sharing gossip and secrets. He was exhausted and had to work tomorrow, and he was in no mood for any of Grace’s weird-ass behavior.

He rapped on the door, hard. “Open this door, dammit.”

There was no reply. He knocked again, more forcefully. No one answered.

Are you kidding me? Now I’m being ignored in my own house?

Every interior door in their home that was capable of locking had a master key, but he had no idea where the key was being kept, hadn’t used it since moving into the house seven years ago. Who needed keys inside their own house?

“I’m not having this shit.” He punched the door one final time. “We’re going to have a talk about locking these doors. It’s going to stop.”

He waited for about a half-minute. Incredibly, no one responded. He stomped downstairs into the kitchen and switched on the lights.

The kitchen sparkled like a room in a model home. Grace had cooked dinner again, some sort of chicken seasoned with herbs, accompanied by roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread. It was an amazing meal, and she had cleaned up afterward, too. Her culinary and housekeeping skills were formidable, but in Troy’s mind, failed to compensate for her other, increasingly disturbing qualities.

Such as her propensity for killing the family dog and making it look as if his own mother was at fault.

One of the corner drawers was used to store miscellaneous items—otherwise known as the infamous “junk drawer.” Troy recalled he had seen some miniature keys in there the last time he had rummaged through the contents.

He snatched out the drawer to its full length and started searching, placing items on the counter as he dug through the space: old batteries, take-out Chinese menus, refrigerator magnets, rolls of tape, assorted nuts and bolts, assembly manuals for car seats and toys . . .

He had been looking for a few, fruitless minutes when he suddenly had the distinct sense that someone was watching him. He turned.