Chapter 1

The ceramic cherub stared at me with unsettling white eyes. Its wings were folded, its head was canted slightly to one side, and its pudgy hands were clasped together in a gesture that was no doubt meant to be adorable.

I shuddered and threw a newspaper over it. Obviously, though, I was still well aware of its presence. Probably staring at me right through the newsprint. With its blank…white…eyes.

I sighed, picked up the paper, and turned the statuette around to face away from me.

Better.

Until I spotted the reflection of its empty eyes on the screen of our dark TV.

My discomfort with clutter—even clutter incapable of looking at me—is well-known. In fact, my predilections might even have risen to the level of an inside joke. Or maybe not-so-inside, given that pretty much everyone in my phone contacts knew better than to saddle me with any tchotchkes or knickknacks for our anniversary.

Everyone, apparently, but Jacob’s sister.

“Is that today’s?” Jacob asked, then plucked the newspaper from my grasp before I even answered. He settled into his side of the sofa—the side next to the too-bright reading lamp, where he can pretend it doesn’t bother him when a handy pair of cheaters is nowhere to be found—and curled up to fill himself in on the day’s corruption, mayhem and murder.

Completely ignoring the thing on the coffee table. Staring at our reflection.

Or maybe just at mine.

Objects can’t be haunted. I knew that for a fact. If they could, we’d be able to come up with a way better screening test for mediums. Still. That cherub gave me the creeps.

Would Jacob notice if he woke up tomorrow morning and it just happened to be gone?

Probably. That husband of mine will be totally oblivious to the leftovers he stows in the back of the fridge until they grow legs and walk away, but heaven forbid something of “his” ends up in the trash bin…especially if there’s enough time for him to haul it back out before the garbagemen show up.

“So,” I ventured, hoping Jacob would magically take up the thread and observe that the figurine clearly had no place in our decor and suggest getting rid of it. When he didn’t, I tried a pointed sigh. That didn’t work either. Finally, I had no choice but to come right out and say, “You really wanna keep that thing?”

Jacob looked up from the paper with a What thing? expression that made me wonder if maybe I could have gotten away with slipping the thing into the trash after all…but now, clearly, I’d blown my chance by calling attention to my discomfort.

“The gift.” I somehow managed to say it without air quotes. “I mean…. It doesn’t really go with, uh…anything.”

Jacob glanced at the back of the cherub’s head and shrugged. “You know I don’t know much about art.” He looked back down at the paper. “Barb said it was valuable.”

The discussion of whether or not it even qualified as art could be shelved for another day. “Valuable, how?”

“Collectible, I guess.”

Was that an opportunity I spied? Jacob might be able to overlook a single creepy cherub. A whole slew of them, however…. “People collect all kinds of things,” I said casually. “No accounting for taste, I suppose. But the thing about collections is, once word gets out that you collect something, before you know it, you’ll be inundated. There was a community liaison officer back at the Fifth who got a little stuffed pig from God-knows-where, and before you knew it, suddenly her desk was covered in ’em. Pig coasters. Pig office supplies. Pig salt-and-pepper shakers.”

Jacob glanced up from the paper and crooked an eyebrow. “That’s what happens when you’re a cop. Pig jokes come with the territory.”

“But it’s not like all of us were buried in stupid pig clutter. Just her. Because people had pegged her as a collector, so they were never at a loss for what to give her for every random occasion. And you know what she told me? She didn’t even like pigs. Saw a swine farm once on a grade school field trip and it took a week to get the stink out of her nose.”

It looked like the threat of umpteen cherubs showing up on our doorstep every year was enough to make Jacob part with the gift, but then he second-guessed himself with, “It seems like a shame to just toss a valuable collectible.”

“Who said anything about tossing?” Yes, that had been the solution I was angling for. But I’ve learned that sometimes, in order to get what you want, you need to course-correct. “Plenty of New Agey types love angels—just the type of person who’d shop at Crash’s store. We can give it to him.”

Offloading the angel on Crash would be a serious win-win. Not only would it get the statue out of our house, but if it truly was as valuable as Barb seemed to think, he might make a profit. Everything was more expensive these days, but the last time I tried to pay extra for our house-smudging, Crash read me the riot act. So, whenever there was an opportunity to share the wealth with him in a way that let everyone save face, we jumped on it.

But I didn’t let him know we were coming. Just in case he asked for a photo, determined the thing was worthless, and told us not to waste our time.

If there’s any profession with even worse hours than law enforcement, it’s retail. The summer sun hung low and it was going on eight by the time we got to Still Goods, but the lights were on and a few customers were still milling through the antique mall. The first thing that struck me as we stepped inside was not how dusty it all was–the dust was normal–but how humid.

“AC’s on the fritz,” Crash called out by way of greeting as we made our way into his shop. He and his stupidly attractive boyfriend Red seemed unfazed by the heat. Then again, they were both young and hot enough to wear the tattered remains of punk rock T-shirts that flashed all kinds of skin, whereas I’d be worried about a random stranger getting a glimpse of something they shouldn’t. Not because I’m a prude, mind you. Certain angles are just less than flattering.

Pointedly looking anywhere but the sculpted, tattooed shoulders and inadvertent flashes of nipple, I set my sights on the counter with the objective of divesting myself of the creepy angel, ASAP, when I nearly tripped over a scampering, skittering ball of fur.

“The dog is Snickerdoodle,” Crash said. “And here I thought Curtis was an unfortunate name.”

Red answered him with a resigned head-shake that was much more expressive than my sigh that Jacob had ignored.

The creature flopped onto his haunches and began to scratch. Vigorously. Red said, “He has a skin condition. Allergies. Or maybe mites.” I found myself absently scratching my own forearm. “We’re waiting on tests.”

Crash said, “If you think owning a house is a money pit, try getting a used dog.”

“We’ll be reimbursed,” Red said.

“Yeah, but we still gotta front the cash.”

“He’s a foster,” Red explained in his infinite patience. At least you don’t have to deal with it forever. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I had enough tact to leave them unsaid. “One of our friends from Rainbow Dharma was set to take him in, then she was put on bed rest for her last trimester, so….”

I glanced down at the displaced animal only to find Jacob down on one knee making kissy-faces.

Just when you think you know a guy.

“He likes you,” Crash said. Empathic? Or just being nice? Scratch that, Crash is plenty of things. Nice isn’t one of them. “Take him for a walk and he’ll love you forever. Plus, we’ll finally get to count out our drawer in peace and blow this pop stand before midnight.”

Jacob perked up visibly, and Red handed him a boho macrame leash. “There’s a park just up the next side street. Can’t miss it. His bladder thanks you—and so do we.”

Good thing Snickerdoodle was smaller than a breadbox. He obviously knew what the leash meant—and he would’ve hauled off Jacob’s arm in his eagerness to get outside…where he proceeded to lift his leg and pee on the door frame. And the light post. And anything else that wasn’t currently moving.

As we waited for him to anoint a nearby bike rack, Jacob said, “My parents never let me have a dog.”

“Really?” I couldn’t imagine either Jerry or Shirley putting their foot down.

“As a kid, Dad was bitten by a neighbor’s Doberman—nasty thing—so he didn’t trust dogs around small children. He kept putting it off ‘until you’re older’ and ‘until your sister is older’…until finally I was looking at colleges and dorms and….” He shrugged.

Yeah. That sneaky approach was way more his parents’ style.

We found the park Red had mentioned easily enough—the sound of screaming children really carries—and Snickerdoodle started huffing and puffing in his excitement to have more things to pee on.

Jacob, by contrast, seemed uncharacteristically quiet. I gave him the side-eye and saw he had that sappy, faraway look he gets whenever something hits him directly in the feels.

Now he wanted a dog.

Well, shit.

And given that Snickerdoodle was a foster, we could very well end up with this specific dog. This very itchy, very pee-filled dog.

Since I’m always riding Jacob about his age, I could hardly make the excuse that we should wait ’till he was older, could I? Although maybe I could suggest we wait for retirement. After all, we spent ridiculous amounts of time at work, and we both knew it.

We were both lost in dog-thoughts when someone from the park called our names, startling us both. “Jacob? Vic!”

“Exactly how many of your exes were we gonna run into tonight?” I muttered to Jacob as I gave Keith and Manny an obligatory wave.

The guys were seated on a park bench overlooking a sandbox where a few kids were barraging each other with handfuls of sand. Our friends were both gym rats. Both rocking skimpy tank tops. And both middle-aged. But the similarity was superficial, at best. Smiling, Manny stood up from the bench, motioning us over. He was the sweet one, always up for a bit of gossip.

Keith was the bitter one. He didn’t bother getting up—or smiling, for that matter. I took solace in the fact that he hated everybody—not just me.

“Oh my god,” Manny gushed. “You guys got a dog.”

“We’re just borrowing him,” Jacob said.

“Isn’t he precious?” Manny knelt and let the dog scurry over and sniff his hand. Thankfully, Snickerdoodle knew better than to pee on him.

Cripes, if that was the most positive thing I could come up with, I’d need a better game plan to quash Jacob’s dreams.

Manny started scratching the dog behind the ears before either of us could mention the skin condition, and Snickerdoodle’s hind leg thumped the ground in time with the scratches. But aside from the jimmy-leg, the way he looked at Manny with his liquid, dark eyes was pretty darned cute.

Though that didn’t mean I wanted those eyes staring at me when I got out of the shower.

“Are you on a stakeout?” I asked the guys, hoping to remind Jacob exactly how much we all worked.

Manny glanced back at Keith, grinning. Keith crossed his arms and looked especially resigned. Manny said, “We just came here to…think.”

“Adoption,” Keith blurted out. “It can take years. So if we want to get the ball rolling—”

“You want a kid?” Yeah, that sounded just as bad coming out of my mouth as you’d imagine.

But Manny didn’t take offense—and Keith would have been offended no matter how I’d reacted. “I’ve always wanted a big family,” Manny said. “For the longest time, I never really thought I could have one.”

“One kid at a time,” Keith said.

Manny shrugged. “You never know—we might find some siblings that need to stay together.”

The mere thought of waking up to an instant family was enough to make me break out in hives. Or maybe it was a sympathetic dog mange I’d developed. Either way, I’d bet my last tube of cortisone cream that Jacob hadn’t pictured himself with a gaggle of kids either, growing up in the era we had. We’d never even seen ourselves as marriage material, for crying out loud. Let alone parents.

Now, look at us. Not just out—even at work—but an official married couple.

My face was normal, I think, as Manny chitchatted about what it might be like to have a daughter or a son. A baby or a teenager. And whether race really mattered when he was Latino and Keith was white—that maybe the family could just be one big rainbow. (Keith winced a little at that remark. Can’t say I blamed him.)

“Of course, I’ll get to be the fun parent—and Keith will be the responsible one. But what matters most is that we give them lots of love and understanding. Right, boo?”

Keith grunted.

Mosquitoes were now whining in our ears, so we wrapped up the conversation and got out of there before the bugs could eat us alive. We hurried back toward the shop, though the dog felt the urgent need to re-pee on everything he’d hit the first time around.

Neither Jacob nor I spoke. No doubt his thoughts had turned to “family”—people from stable homes tend to feel nostalgic about these things—while I wondered if it was too late to suggest getting a dog. But, no. Jacob wasn’t even looking at the damn dog anymore. Just staring moodily off into the distance.

Careening into damage-control mode, I said, “Foster kids.”

Jacob paused, and Snickerdoodle snapped to the end of his silly leash, plunked down on the sidewalk, and began to scratch.

“Plenty of kids need a foster family,” I told Jacob. He did a double-take. “Not necessarily for the long haul.” Like eighteen-plus years. “Just until their permanent situation gets all worked out.”

Never mind that I’d been one of those foster kids, and my “permanent situation” had involved moving around until I finally aged out of the system. It sounded way better than, Don’t you dare even think about saddling me with a freaking kid for the next twenty years!

Jacob narrowed his shrewd eyes. “You want to be a foster parent?”

“Just making an observation.”

“Huh.”

Backpedal. Quick. “Although it might be better to start with a dog. A foster dog. Like Crash and Red. See how it goes.”

“But we’re never home.”

Wait, now he didn’t want a dog? You think you know a guy. “Actually, Jacob, you’re right. We can barely handle Veronica’s cats—and they keep each other entertained.”

Jacob nodded thoughtfully. “Besides, I’m not ready to be the responsible parent.”

“Hold on, mister…you’re saying I’d be the fun parent?”

“Well, obviously.”

“In what world? Who’s the one always picking up around the house? Me. Who’s the one who lets in that mind-numbingly chatty meter reader? Also me. And who’s the one holding down the fort so you can go play the FPMP Hunger Games this weekend—?”

Jacob interrupted. “Are you saying you don’t want to be the fun parent?” He had me so turned around by now, I didn’t know what the hell I even wanted. “If you wanted in on Operation Finder, you should have said so.”

Frankly, I’d rather watch a dog mark every streetlight in the city than subject myself to dozens of federal agents trying to prove who had the biggest dick. I’d had more than enough of that competitive machismo on the force, thank you very much. The fact that the Federal Psychic Monitoring Program was dressing it up as a “friendly” scavenger hunt made it all the worse.

Navigating a strange city. Working as a team. Talking to strangers. That might be Jacob’s idea of a good time, but it sure as hell wasn’t mine.

But it might help me prove a point. “I’ve got zero desire to go to make a fool of myself at some institutional team-building exercise…but it’s nice to have the option. Which I wouldn’t, if we had a dog.”

I’m not sure if Snickerdoodle could sense the tension between us, or if he just understood the word “dog.” He turned to look at me as if to say, Maybe you would be giving up some freedom…but wouldn’t the love of another living creature be worth it?

Connection. Such a tenuous thing. And yet, with those limpid brown eyes boring into mine, I couldn’t deny that it was tempting….

And just as my hell no shifted into a conditional maybe, Snickerdoodle gazed deep into my soul, squatted…and took a massive dump.