Why not grab a burger somewhere and see if any of the guys from work wanted to bowl a few games? If he was lucky, by the time he returned, the worst of Meg’s bug would be over.

He picked up his keys from the table, jiggling them as he looked toward the hall. Had he convinced her he was telling the truth? That none of the detective’s allegations had any basis in reality? Or was she weighing his explanations even now, trying to decide who to believe?

Impossible to know. For once, his transparent, needy wife had been difficult to read.

But the cops had no hard proof to tie him to any of the threats made to Eve. Soon, they’d leave him alone and the case would go cold.

As long as he forked out the dough to buy Meg jewelry and kept a low profile with Candy for a while, he could smooth out the waters in his marriage. The setup on the home front was too sweet to muck up. What was not to like about a wife who cooked, cleaned, handled chores, did his bidding, and shared his bed?

Spirits rising, he tossed the keys in the air . . . caught them . . . and strolled toward the door to the garage. This would all turn out fine. Meg was easy to influence, and the cops were at a dead end.

He had this under control.

The first coat of finish was done.

Yay!

Eve swiped the back of her hand over her forehead and surveyed the gleaming hardwood floor in the living room. Not a bad end to the week. One more coat tomorrow, and by next Saturday she could begin putting all her furniture back where it belonged.

At a sudden, loud rumble from beneath her rib cage, she twisted her wrist.

Good grief. Was it seven-thirty already? No wonder her stomach was sending out distress signals. For a woman who rose long before the sun, this was way past the dinner hour.

A salad from Panera would be the perfect meal—but she’d promised Brent she’d stay close to the house . . . and home delivery would take too long.

Eve blew out a breath.

An omelet would have to do. Any other hot meal would require more energy than she could muster after all her hours of labor.

But once she finished the final coat on the floor tomorrow, she’d dig out her recipe for—

The doorbell chimed—and her heart skipped a beat.

She wasn’t expecting company, and Brent was out of town.

Pulse accelerating, she crept across the tiny foyer to the front door and peered through the peephole.

On the other side, Cate and Grace were making goofy faces at her.

What on earth?

She undid the bolt, twisted the handle, and pulled the door wide.

In unison, her two sisters did a double take.

Cate recovered first. “The Martians have landed.”