Roy forced a laugh that fell dead flat, said again he had to go, and hung up.

“How is everyone?” Leona asked with her back to him.

“The old man’s cranky as ever.”

“I meant everyone else.”

“Oh. Do we have to talk about them?”

“I’m asking. I want to know.”

“They’re fine. We set up shop in the Ponce de Leon, and at last report no one had been murdered.”

“That’s not funny,” she said, rounding the wall with the coffee mugs. She handed him one and sat down next to him, facing him, folding one of her legs over his. “You know I don’t like those kind of jokes.”

“I know.”

“Where do they think you are?”

“Right now? If they’re even awake, they think I’m checking on the house and the store, which I am, eventually.”

“And they’re okay with that?”

“You say it like they’re some sort of committee. They’re asleep. And I didn’t just take off; I left them a note. Besides, after last night, I doubt they’re in any rush to see me.”

Leona sipped, watching him. After a moment she tilted her head forward slightly and hitched her brow. She was twenty-nine years old, six years younger than Roy. She was in nursing school, had on her dining room table a fortress of medical textbooks, the contents of which sailed over Roy’s head. Some of their illustrations sickened him. When she gave him this expression, he felt as if he were being scrutinized by a precocious teenager who fancied herself a psychologist—but with her, he didn’t mind. She was waiting for him to elaborate. Finally, she asked, “What happened?”

“Oh, I blew my top. But, Jesus, they had it coming. They can act like a bunch of lunatics when they’re locked up together. I’m telling you, the noise alone is enough to drive you out of your skull.” She held the look. “What?” he protested. “It is.”

“What happened?”

“Karen … The thing is, Karen’s acting like— Well, never mind that, but Matt is obviously …”

“Tell me.”

“It’s Teresa, really. She’s like gasoline on this flame you just want to … put out. She antagonizes them, and me. She doesn’t mean to, she’s just always so wound up.” He felt wound up himself; he was leaning against her leg, holding the mug by its handle and tapping his other hand over its mouth as if he were trying to send smoke signals. “There’s something about it,” he said, and then shook his head and sat back, and continued to shake his head, craving the attention she was paying him and at the same time wanting to drop the subject.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” she said.

“Crazy what? I’m there, aren’t I?”

“I mean impulsive.”