Officially the dog was Kaye’s. She’d asked for a puppy for her birthday. Nick hadn’t wanted one—the last thing he needed was a yard full of dog crap—but Kaye looked so disappointed when he gave her the tennis bracelet. “I need him for security,” she said, eyeing the Millers’ house. “That brother gives me the willies. He stares.”

“He’s all right,” Nick said.

“I’m lonely, too, with the kids in school all day.” She said it in her baby voice, and he, feeling a little turned on, gave in.

She probably was lonely. She’d had a bunch of girlfriends when they lived back in Beaufort. There was always some woman or other sitting on the couch or poolside when he got home from work, sometimes a whole squad of them, sitting around, laughing. Northern women seemed to be afraid of getting caught enjoying themselves. Kaye had tried to make inroads in Willard Park last spring, hosting one of those toy parties, but it had been a flop. She still had a closet full of plastic buckets and stacking toys no one wanted.

“They’re jealous of us, huh, Nick?” Kaye said. “For having nice stuff?”

Nick said they must be, but in fact he didn’t think they were. Up here people seemed to think it was classier to live in a crumbling old house than a new one. Who knew why? If Willard Park was all about families, as it claimed to be, they should have seen that his house was family oriented, with its multiple family rooms and hot tub. Those little houses made everyone want to go outside instead of staying in. What good was a house that made you want to leave it?

Kaye wanted to move back to South Carolina, but no one was exactly begging him to build down there anymore. So he’d violated a few building codes. He hadn’t killed anyone, for God’s sake, but he was persona non grata anyway.

They were going to throw a party in a few weeks—Nick’s idea—to give Kaye something fun to think about. He was inviting a bunch of business contacts so he could write the whole thing off.

Rex jumped off the couch and barked in the direction of the Millers’ house, where Ted Miller sat on the porch in the dark. Rex had been at it all night. It was a different bark, an edgier bark, from the one he used for the Millers’ funny-looking little dog; it was a bark that said, “I’m no pussycat.”

Ted had been out there since early evening. Nick could just make out the shape of him by the moonlight, hunched over in his chair. “Quiet, Rex,” he said, but Rex whined to be let out.