Agent Scott’s jacket doesn’t quite hide the bulge of a holster on his left hip. My guess is that’s intentional—he wants everyone to know he’s carrying.

If Special Agent Rondeau is carrying, it’s probably in a pancake holster at her back. It makes me like her a little.

Their car, a silver Ford Fusion, sits in the driveway, the front grille a wide oval like the open mouth of a whale shark.

I don’t see any other feds or anyone else in the front yard.

According to her ID, Special Agent Rondeau’s first name is Alisha.

This all takes a good ten seconds, long enough for Agent Scott to scratch his neck irritably. Rondeau doesn’t move a muscle. Meanwhile Wilson continues to whine and bark, jumping against my leg and trying to get outside so somebody new can scratch his belly.

“Okay, Special Agent Rondeau,” I say. “How can I help you?”

She gives me a professional smile that could mean anything from thank you to go to hell. “May we come inside?”

I smile back. “You may not.”

Agent Scott actually snorts like an annoyed bull.

“This is my brother’s house,” I say. “He’s at work and isn’t much of a housekeeper. Plus his dog is going bananas. Give me one second and I’ll come outside.” Before either of them can speak, I close the door and turn the deadbolt. “Hush,” I say to Wilson, reaching down to pet him. He licks my hand, then whines at the front door. I put my revolver back in its holster on the coffee table, then place a New Yorker magazine over it. I slide my feet into my sneakers, and that’s when Tane peeks out from the short hallway to my brother’s room. He’s in a T-shirt and boxers and looks decidedly uncaffeinated—his mop of hair is a tangled mess and his eyes are puffy with sleep. Before he can say a word, I cross the room and put my hand over his mouth. His eyes widen slightly, then go even wider when I lean in close to whisper in his ear. “FBI at the door,” I say, barely above a breath.

Tane rears back, my hand still over his mouth, and shakes his head emphatically. I nod, remove my hand from his mouth, and point back to the bedroom. He vanishes. My palm is moist from Tane’s mouth and I wipe it on my leg. Then I go through the kitchen and out the back door, leaving Wilson inside.

I walk down the driveway to the front yard, whistling a Dirt Plow song so I don’t startle the Feebies. I also take the chance to look around and confirm that the house isn’t surrounded by a SWAT team. It’s already warm, the sky a summer blue that promises heat and afternoon rain.