He was in front of her, so she felt rather than saw his amusement.

They left through the sliding doors. The rain had stopped, but humidity hung in the air. Crickets chirped as they crossed the parking lot and climbed into her cruiser.

Stella started the engine. “When did you get in from Brazil?”

“Left Manaus yesterday. Flew into New York today.”

In the course of two days, he’d been shot, traveled from one hemisphere to another, lost his father, and crashed his car. How was he still conscious? Exhaustion was fuzzing Stella’s brain. She checked the dashboard clock. Nearly midnight. With Missy’s case turning into a homicide investigation and Dena Miller’s strange disappearance, Stella’s day had been long before she’d run into Mac.

“Do you have coffee at your place?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been home yet.” He eased the seat belt across his torso and clicked the latch. “Do you know were my Jeep was towed?”

“Probably to Thompson’s Garage. I’ll call in the morning.”

“Thanks. My phone and bags are still in it.”

At the edge of town, Stella pulled into a strip mall and went thru the drive-thru of a Dunkin’ Donuts. “Coffee?”

“Coffee would be great.”

Stella’s stomach rumbled, and she assumed Mac hadn’t eaten recently. “Food?”

“I’m OK.”

She added three sandwiches and a dozen donuts to the order. Even if he wasn’t hungry right this minute, she bet he would be soon. “Well, I’m starving.”

“Sounds like it.”

The cashier handed Stella the food, and she passed the bags and box to Mac. Back on the road, he directed her to the rural highway where he’d crashed. The only sign of his accident was a muddy path of bent weeds and a few broken pine trees.

She drove a mile farther and pointed to a turnoff on the right-hand side of the road. “I live down there, on the river.”

“We’re practically neighbors, though you live on the developed side of the road,” said Mac.

“I live with my grandfather. My sister and her three kids live there, too.”

“Sounds crowded.”

“I don’t mind. They’re family.” Stella took the coffee cup he handed her. “Morgan’s husband was killed in Iraq. She and the kids need us.”

“I’m sorry.” From a military family, Mac would understand.

“I wish I could help more, but I can’t grieve for them.” Sadness spread through Stella’s limbs, weighting them down.

“No, you can’t.” The news quieted Mac. He didn’t speak again until they’d driven another two miles. “Take the next left. Watch the mud. My lot is a little more rustic than yours.”

Stella had neighbors around the lake. Mac had no one close to him. She might be his closest neighbor.

She slowed the car. Her cruiser splashed and lurched down the rutted dirt lane. “Some road.”