Copper Lake Confidential

chapter 12



Macy was so mortified with herself that she couldn’t bring herself to care—yet—if everyone else thought she was crazy. She knew what she had seen: a small body, dressed in purple and pink, floating facedown in the pool. Her daughter, wearing the same colors, nowhere in the house. The terror that had practically brought her to her knees. The incredible sensation of having her heart ripped from her chest. The inability to move fast enough, to pray hard enough, to reach her soon enough.

That empty pool was the best thing she’d ever seen—and among the most frightening. The looks on Brent’s and Anne’s faces had solidified the ice inside her. They thought she was losing her mind.

She thought she was losing her mind.

But Stephen had answered her with such certainty. No. He had faith in her.

Or at least did an excellent job of pretending. Either way, it meant a lot to her.

They locked up the house again, leaving Scooter wandering. “He’ll be on your bed by the time we back out of the driveway,” Stephen said, apparently trying to defuse the tension with a totally normal comment. “Want me to go up and close the door?”

“He’s welcome on the bed or anywhere else.”

“Dr. Stephen, Mama said I could have a dog or a baby sister or a baby brother,” Clary said excitedly. “Can you help get me one?”

Macy’s cheeks warmed, though her embarrassment faded when Brent and Anne both laughed. When she dared a look at Stephen, he was grinning. Primly she said, “You asked for a sister or a brother, then decided you’d rather have a puppy. Remember?”

Her daughter tilted her head to one side, not quite understanding why Macy was pointing out the difference. “Yeah. So can Dr. Stephen help me get one? Like Scooter, only littler?”

“I can do that, Li’l Bit. As soon as your mom says it’s okay.”

“Yay! If it’s a boy, I’m gonna name him Roscoe and if it’s a girl, she’s gonna be Bertha.”

Roscoe? Bertha? Stephen mouthed to Macy, and she shrugged. Who knew where she’d heard the names?

They split up, Macy, Stephen and Clary in her van, Brent and Anne in their truck. Stephen drove, since her hands were still unsteady. She spent most of the trip clenching them tightly in her lap, remembering. Wondering.

“Mace.”

She glanced his way at the sound of his quiet voice, feeling a faint old comfort in the name. Her friends used to call her Mace, but Mark hadn’t liked it. Said it sounded like something sprinkled on a holiday drink.

She’d given up the nickname for him.

“Why would anyone want you to think you’re seeing things?”

Warmth flowed through her and melted the last bit of icy terror inside her. He did have faith in her—more than she had in herself. “I don’t know.”

“Who benefits from not having you around?”

“Nobody.” Her fingers twisted painfully together. “Why do you believe me?”

He stopped at a red light and met her gaze. She could get lost in those hazel eyes of his. “You couldn’t have faked that scream, that emotion. And Scooter. Something out there had his attention.”

She smiled weakly. His faith in her was strong, but his faith in his dog was absolute.

“What happens to Clary if you’re in the hospital again?”

“Brent would have custody, but she’d probably stay with Mom and Dad, just like before.”

“Who controls the money?”

“Brent. Just like before.”

“And if you—” Stephen swallowed audibly. “If you die?”

God couldn’t let that happen to Clary, could he? Losing both parents before she was in preschool? Her own swallow was pretty loud. “Brent would have custody of Clary and control of the estate. But he would never...”

“No,” he agreed. “He would never.”

Brent loved her. Adored her. Her entire family did. They were closer than any other family she knew. Her time in the hospital had been as hard on them as her. Besides, if Brent had wanted control of her money, he’d had it for months.

As far as she knew, she didn’t have any enemies. Well, there was Louise Wetherby, who was so accustomed to getting what she wanted. Could she want Fair Winds enough to terrorize Macy to get it?

And Lorna Howard. Mark’s mother had been deeply disappointed in her for believing the authorities’ tales about him. Could she have decided she didn’t want her only grandchild or her son’s fortune under the control of a woman who didn’t honor his memory? Who’d never protested his innocence?

Macy couldn’t believe either of them would do such a thing. She was sure they were capable, but not even Louise or Lorna would stoop to such levels.

She couldn’t believe anyone in her life would do such a thing.

“Maybe it’s Mark’s ghost,” she said with a sound somewhere between laughter and choking. “Maybe I’m being haunted for not standing up for him.”

Stephen gave her a look.

“Fair Winds is haunted. Everyone who’s spent time there knows it. Maybe our house is haunted, too. Maybe Mark’s angry with me, so his ghost is punishing me.”

As they turned into Tia Maria’s parking lot, Clary piped up from the backseat. “Ghosts are just on TV and in books. They’re not real. Grandma said so.”

Macy took a deep breath to get a grip on her emotions. “And Grandma’s always right, isn’t she, sweetie?”

Lunch was a subdued affair. Brent and Anne both ordered margaritas, an attitude of relief as they drank them, and Macy ate too much queso and guacamole. Only Stephen and Clary acted their usual selves, teasing, talking, telling silly jokes. He was very good with her daughter. Mark had loved Clary, but he hadn’t been much of a hands-on father. That might have changed for the better as she grew older, but Macy suspected it wouldn’t have.

Besides, what did love mean when it came from a serial killer? If he didn’t value other people’s lives, could he have truly loved anyone but himself?

Rubbing her temples, she wished she’d ordered a margarita, too. Maybe a pitcher.

After lunch, they delivered the boxes to the library, then Brent and Anne stopped to pick up more cartons while she and Stephen and Clary drove home. He and Clary went searching for Scooter, and Macy walked through the house and out onto the patio.

The pool still looked calm, undisturbed. Water dotted the flagstone around it from the sprinklers that had come on while they were gone. Had it been wet the last time she’d stood here? She couldn’t remember. She hadn’t thought to check, hadn’t been able to focus on anything except that clear expanse of water where her daughter wasn’t floating. The rescue hook was in its usual place. Everything was identical to her gruesome vision, except, dear God, for the body.

“What did you see?”

Startled, she stiffened, and it took a moment to relax even after Brent had slid his arm around her shoulders. “I would swear on my life it was Clary, floating facedown, not moving.”

“Thank God it wasn’t.”

“But it looked like her. Brown hair, pink and purple clothes.” The image was clear in her mind. It would never completely fade.

“I know this is hard for you.”

She stiffened again as she tilted her head to study him. His expression was so serious, so grim—a look she’d seen practically every day she was in the hospital. He’d driven the two hours from Charleston so often he’d joked he could do it in his sleep; he’d sat with her, held her, told her every little thing Clary had done or said. He’d been her anchor.

And now he thought she was hallucinating.

“I’m taking my medication, Brent. I’m keeping busy. I’m not losing control.” She would have held out one hand to show him she was steady as a rock, but she knew it would betray her. As her mind had? “I’m not imagining things.”

Except for the intruder in the guesthouse. The contract magically moving itself from the living room to the office. The cologne bottle doing the same upstairs. Now the body in the pool.

“The important thing is Clary’s all right. We’ll be done here soon. You can leave town in a few more days, and you can put all this behind you.”

Frustration welled inside her. If she was breaking down again, leaving wouldn’t cure it. But she wasn’t breaking down. She knew what she’d seen. The terror couldn’t have been any more real, the image couldn’t have been any more real.... Except it wasn’t real at all.

If she couldn’t believe what she’d seen, could she be sure of anything else? Could she be sure she didn’t have any enemies who would try to drive her mad? Could she truly trust her family? Could she know for a fact that Mark’s ghost wasn’t haunting her? Could she trust Stephen?

“Unless,” Brent went on, “you’ve changed your mind about leaving.” He nodded toward the house, and through the glass doors she saw Stephen swinging Clary in a circle in the empty dining space. They were both laughing and Scooter, chasing after her sneakered feet, barked in accompaniment.

Something like peace settled over her. She had questions about a lot of things, but she did trust Stephen. It was something innate, something rooted so deeply inside her that it hadn’t been a conscious choice. It just was.

“You know I wasn’t thrilled when you brought Mark home to meet us.”

“I remember.” He’d thought Mark was a rich kid with an overwhelming sense of entitlement. Mark had thought her family and their tidy little house were quaint and had wondered why someone with Brent’s potential didn’t do something besides lawn care. He’d made money at it, sure, but he could have made money doing something more, well, prestigious. Not performing a service that people didn’t want to do for themselves.

“I wouldn’t mind facing this one at family get-togethers. He’s a good guy.”

“I know.” All other uncertainties aside, that was one thing she did know. “I was thinking yesterday that as soon as I settle, I could start donating money to some charities, and the first ones that came to mind were here in Copper Lake. You know, like I should start close to home and Copper Lake is home. And other than Mark’s family, I like the town. It’s a good place.”

“And the cute little nerd vet makes it an even better place, huh?”

She elbowed him. “You’ve been talking to Anne.”

“Of course. We talk about everything.” Still embracing her with one arm, Brent led her away from the pool and across the lawn. “So you might stay here.”

Stephen hadn’t asked her to, but he’d hinted that he would like it. Besides, she couldn’t choose a place to live based on a short-term relationship that could, despite her hopes, remain short-term. But she’d liked Copper Lake before she’d met him. She had friends here, people who didn’t gossip about her, who knew what Mark had done had nothing to do with her.

“Apparently, I’m thinking about it.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem for you?”

“Not the town. Just the house. Fair Winds. A few people I can avoid.”

“You wouldn’t mind going from one of the wealthiest men in town to a vet who, I’m guessing, doesn’t make a lot of money and doesn’t care?”

She gave him a reproving look. “You know I don’t care about money.” It was easy to say when she had it, but she would give up every dollar to erase the past eighteen months of suffering and loss.

“I know.” He wrapped his arm around her neck, pulled her close for a hug, then led her toward the house. “But you do care about him, don’t you?”

* * *

Stephen was reluctant to go home that night. Brent and Anne had said good-night and retired to the guesthouse over an hour ago, and their lights had gone out soon after. After begging for her fifth one last story, Clary had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms and snored lightly, while Scooter was doing the same on one of the chairs. Stephen and Macy were sharing the teak love seat on the patio. It was the only place left on the property, she’d joked, that would seat anyone comfortably.

She tried to hide a yawn, not easy when her arms were full of daughter. He took it as his cue to reluctantly say, “I should go and let you get to bed.”

For just an instant in the dim light, panic crept across her face. “Sleep’s overrated, you know?”

“I could—” He stopped himself from offering to spend the night. The old beds in the guest rooms were shorter than him by a head, and there wasn’t even a decent couch left in the house to curl up on. He wasn’t wild about bunking down on the floor because while sleep might be overrated to her, he needed it to function. But he’d do it if she asked.

She was looking at him curiously, so he changed his statement to a tentative offer. “You and Clary could go home with me.” His house wasn’t much more accommodating, though he did have a sofa Scooter would happily share with Clary and a bed he would happily share with Macy.

Not that they’d ever talked about sharing a bed, or done anything beyond a few amazing kisses. He wouldn’t turn down more, of course. He wanted her. He missed her when he was away. He worried about her. He fantasized about her. He was pretty damn sure he’d fallen in love with her.

But he wouldn’t pressure her.

He swallowed over the enormous lump in his throat. “I could, uh, sleep on the couch and you two could, uh, have the bed.”

Her head was still tilted, her gaze still curious. Heat flooded his face and pumped into his body with his blood.

After a moment, she sighed. “You don’t know how tempting that is.”

Which even he understood translated into Thanks but no, thanks.

“This has been a tough day, and I...”

Wanted to retreat with her baby and forget any of it had happened. He understood that, too.

He stood and helped her up, and for a moment, they stayed there, the three of them in a silent embrace. He pressed a kiss to her temple, dropped another on Clary’s head, then stepped back so Macy could lead the way inside.

Their footsteps echoed through the house. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the place seemed even colder, less welcoming. It was the missing furniture and rugs, he told himself, all the softness removed, but that wasn’t entirely true. It was also the threat. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t even say at the moment that it wasn’t Mark’s ghost, as she’d suggested, but he didn’t like it. He would be happy the day he’d seen the last of it. Even happier the day Macy and Clary saw the last of it.

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” he asked at the bottom of the stairs.

Macy’s smile was meant to be reassuring, he figured, but it just made her look vulnerable. “We’re safe. I’ll set the alarm, and there are panic buttons in every room.”

“Really? I haven’t seen any.” Not that he knew what a panic button looked like.

“On the nightstands. Underneath Mark’s desk, the dining table, Clary’s crib, the kitchen island. On the control panels themselves.” She shrugged as if there were too many to mention. “Brent and Anne are right out back, and you know how loudly I scream. They’ll hear me if I need them.”

They’d been safe before lunch, too. Daylight, people in and out, and still...

“I can spend the night,” he said. “I can manage that old couch or drag a chair in from outside.”

This time her smile was stronger. “You need rest. So do I. I think I’m tired enough to sleep through anything.”

He doubted that. After he left, she would put Clary to bed, then probably pace the room until she exhausted herself, and still she wouldn’t rest. Whether there was a ghost or not, the house haunted her.

“Please, Stephen. I appreciate the offer, but I’m a grown woman. I’m emotional, but I’m not crazy. I’m not even alone.”

“Okay.” Reluctance shaded his voice. “You have my number.”

“I do.” She stepped closer and nuzzled his jaw.

“Do one thing for me.”

She raised her gaze to his, so close he could see the shades of brown in her eyes.

“Let Scooter spend the night. He’s not trained as a watchdog, but he’s great about picking up on things that are out of place.”

Finally her smile became a real one. “I guess it would be good practice for when we get Roscoe and Bertha. And Clary will be thrilled to wake up in the morning and find him here.”

He kissed her, then bent to unsnap the leash. “You’re staying here, buddy, okay? Keep an eye on my girls.”

“Brent referred to the Right Track women as girls and one of them practically squared off with him. ‘I’m nearly nineteen,’ she said. ‘Don’t call me girl.’” She grinned. “I am woman. Hear me roar—or, more likely, whimper like a puppy.”

He chuckled then kissed her once more. Walking out the door was hard to do, but at least she’d agreed to keep the dog. It was a small comfort, but it was better than nothing.

* * *

Macy came awake suddenly. After wrestling a semiconscious Clary into pajamas and tucking her in, she’d barely had energy to change into her own pajamas. When she’d crawled into bed, she’d been pretty sure she wouldn’t sleep, but at some point, fatigue had won out.

Now she felt as if she’d never closed her eyes, never drowsed. The room was dimly lit by the bathroom light, and she could tell at a glance that nothing was out of place. Clary was stretched out on the far side of the bed, breathing evenly. The doors were closed, the desk chair propped against the one leading into the hall. Her bathroom door was just the way she’d left it, open wide enough to give light, not enough to be too bright.

So what had wakened her?

A low sound came from across the room, raising the hairs on her arms. Slowly she sat up, pushing back the cover. A shadow lurked near the hall door, big and fuzzy and—

Scooter, she realized and tried to swallow back a great laugh of relief. The feeling lasted for only a moment, though, because the dog was still staring at the door, still whining.

Her cell phone sat on the bedside table. Should she call Brent? Stephen? Awaken one of them from a sound sleep to tell them—what? That the dog wanted something? Not being a dog person, her best guess, given his concentration on the door, was that he needed to go out. Dogs sometimes did that in the middle of the night, didn’t they? Take care of business, maybe chase a few scents around the yard before returning to bed?

It was so damn easy to overreact, she thought as she fumbled her feet into flip-flops. She’d been so nervous the past week. Her doctor had warned her this trip could bring a lot of emotions to the surface. Brent had cautioned her, too, and she’d been well aware of the risks entirely on her own. She’d been so fixated on being normal, so sensitive to any indication that she wasn’t, that she didn’t know how to react to anything anymore.

This wasn’t a situation to overreact to. Scooter was a dog. Dogs sometimes had to pee at night. He was at the door, politely asking to go out, and by God, she would let him out without making a big deal of it.

“I’m coming, sweetie,” she murmured. She pulled the chair from its place in front of the door, then opened the door. The dog shot off down the hall as if launched from a cannon. She could tell by the slaps of his paws that he’d reached the bottom of the stairs before she’d turned the corner at the top, and she smiled. Clary hadn’t been potty-trained so long that these emergency gotta-go-right-now! episodes were forgotten.

In the faint light from the kitchen, she saw the golden glow that was Scooter, tail wagging furiously at the door, and picked up her pace. Shut off the alarm, unlock and open the door, hurry hurry, and the dog launched himself far enough to avoid the stone patio and land in the grass. Within a second or two, he’d disappeared into the shadows.

Arms folded across her chest, she surveyed the room while she waited. At 9:00 a.m., the second dealer would be here, this one looking at the smaller, collectible pieces—the Tiffany lamps, the ivory carvings in Mark’s office, the paintings and sculptures and so on. Once he was gone, she would work on the two nurseries. She would keep the chair she’d rocked Clary in, some clothing and books given to Clary by Macy’s friends, a few family heirlooms—an eighteenth-century sterling rattle, some ancient tatted bibs, a few crocheted dresses. She didn’t want anything from the other nursery.

Scooter barked a few times, drawing her attention back outside. The lights on the back fence showed him walking, nose to the ground, occasionally stopping to look around. He followed a trail only he could see to the side of the pool, sniffed the hook a few times, then wandered a bit more. He came back to the house by a different trail and nosed the door a few times before he would step back and let her close it.

When he looked up at her, she would have sworn he was smiling, letting her know he’d done his part in keeping them safe for the night. “Aw, you’re such a good boy. I’d give you a treat if I had any, but how about a good scratch?”

Though his ears perked up at the mention of a treat, he was satisfied with the rubbing and started down the hall when she was done. She set the alarm and followed him, nearly falling over him when he stopped in the living room doorway. “Scooter, you should—”

Her admonition faded as she followed his gaze. Light came from the room where it shouldn’t, not electric but wavering, flickering flames. Tapers. Two of them. In candlesticks that could be traced back to Paul Revere. One on each side of the mantel, placed to cast the best illumination on the wedding portrait that hung above.

“Oh, God...”

With a low rumble, Scooter moved closer to her, nudging her trembling hand with his head. She tried to pat him, tried to say or do something, but all she could manage was staring at the scene.

Someone had brought those candlesticks from the dining room to the mantel.

Someone had lit the flames.

Someone had been in the house.

Someone...who wasn’t her. She was sure of it.

“Clary!” She raced up the stairs to her room, flung back the covers and gathered her daughter into her arms. Thank God, her daughter was safe...but someone had been in the house!

“Okay, okay. We can go to the guesthouse. Better yet, we’ll check into a hotel. I can call Jared at The Magnolia. He’ll make room for us even if they’re full.” She paced to the closet, shifting Clary, mumbling now, to one arm and hip while yanking clothes from the rods. “I’ll call Jared from the car...call Brent and tell him... Stephen.”

Scooter appeared in the doorway and barked once, then headed back out of the room.

Stephen. He was only a quarter mile away. He would welcome them. He would understand. He wouldn’t think she was crazy. He would hold her, comfort her, keep her and Clary safe.

Scooter came back to bark once more before trotting off again. Telling her to come on, quit wasting time, get out of this house.

She looked at the clothes she’d grabbed, two and a half outfits for herself, none for Clary, then dropped them on the bed. They could come back here and change in the morning, when it was daylight, when it was safe. She needed only two things besides her daughter and Scooter. She took her phone from the nightstand, grabbed her medication from the bathroom drawer and headed toward the stairs as Scooter barked a third time.

At the front door, she risked a look into the living room. The candles were still lit, their flames sending ghostly shapes across the canvas. “Gotta get out,” she whispered, arms clenching Clary more tightly, but halfway out the door she remembered Brent. If he found them gone and the clothes tumbled on the bed, he’d panic.

Rushing to the kitchen, she scribbled a note and left it in a prominent place on the island, then rushed back to the door. She was all the way out when she thought about the candles. She couldn’t leave them burning. They were a fire hazard. She didn’t care about losing the house, but she couldn’t endanger Brent and Anne or her neighbors.

She ran into the living room, blew out the flames, breathed in the acrid smoke that curled up from the wicks, then ran out again. Scooter, waiting patiently on the steps, barked, and she closed the door, locked it and hustled for the van. For such a short drive, she set Clary in the passenger seat, shushing her when she murmured and shifted. Scooter jumped into the front floorboard and rested his chin on Clary’s leg. She sighed, patted his head and went on sleeping.

Once Macy drove through the Woodhaven gate, streetlamps were fewer and much farther between. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly they almost went numb, and her gaze kept shifting: street ahead, daughter beside her, road behind her. She braked to a jerky stop in front of the neat little cottage, yanked out her keys, ran around to the passenger side and lifted out Clary, then followed Scooter to the porch.

Her first knock qualified as polite. Ludicrous. She’d fled her house with her little girl in the middle of the night and acted as if she were making a routine visit. Scooter thought it silly, too, because he nosed the screen door open, banged the door with one paw and let out a great deep bark. She imitated his knock, curling her fingers into a fist and banging on the door, then called, “Stephen! It’s me and Clary! Open the door, please!”

Lights came on in the bedroom, thin wedges spilling around the edges of the curtains, and she practically danced in place, anxious to get inside and into his embrace. A moment later, the lock clicked and Stephen pulled the door open. He was wearing boxers—black, she noticed, charmed in some small corner of her mind—and nothing else, not even glasses. His expression was dazed, worried and startled when she threw herself and Clary against his bare chest.

“Mace?” His mouth brushed her ear, and his arms automatically went around them, as if it were the most natural action in the world. She felt as if having them around her was the most natural. “What— Why— Are you guys okay?”

Scooter brushed around them and went into the kitchen, and the sound of lapping at water came a moment later. Normal, she thought again. Scooter was home and getting a drink. She and Clary were home and getting hugged by Stephen. Normal was such a shaky idea for her, one that she wanted so desperately that she didn’t trust her voice to work. “C-can we st-stay here?”

“Of course you can.”

His sleepy, husky voice drifted over her, and the sharp edge of tension gripping her began to dull. Whatever had happened at the house, now she could relax. Now she and Clary were safe. The knowledge sent shivers through her, each ripple diminishing fear and anxiety, until at last her body went limp, taking support from his, her mind easing with the soft stroking of his hand down her spine, the soft murmurs. You’re okay. It’s okay.

When the shaking had stopped, he stepped back, moved his hands to her shoulders and met her gaze. “What happened?”

Her deep inhalation smelled of him and Clary and soap and triggered another loosening sensation of tension. She wanted to just breathe it in, just stand there, her, Clary and Stephen, and absorb the goodness of it, the rightness, but the muscles in her left arm and back were showing the strain of holding her baby for so long. She started to shift her to the other arm, but Stephen intercepted her, lifting Clary gently and laying her on the couch. He slid a small pillow under her head, tucked a quilted throw over her.

When he came back, he closed and locked the door and asked again, quietly, patiently, “What happened?”

Her first attempt at answering was little more than babbling, but after another deep breath, she folded her arms across her middle and feigned control. If you could pretend it, she thought, you could be it.

“Something startled me awake, and I realized Scooter was at the bedroom door, wanting to go out. I took him downstairs and let him out. When he came back in, he stopped in the living room doorway and that’s when I saw candles burning on the mantel under the portrait.”

His gaze narrowed so intently that she wondered for one heartbreaking moment if he doubted her, if his reassurances that afternoon had been merely an attempt to placate her, as her family often had. When he held up a finger and pivoted away into the bedroom, though, then came back with his glasses on, relief banished her own doubt. He’d just been trying to bring her into focus.

“Where did the candles come from? There have never been any on the mantel.”

“The candlesticks were in the dining room. The china cabinet at the far end. Bottom cabinet. Paul Revere made them. The tapers must have been in there, too.”

His eyes widened slightly. “The Paul Revere?”

“That’s what the documentation says.”

“Wow.” That quickly the candlesticks’ provenance was dismissed. Pulling one hand loose from where she hugged herself, he led her into the kitchen, flipped on the overhead light and seated her at the table. He took two mugs from the cabinet, looked at the coffeemaker, then took a bottle from another cabinet instead. After sitting next to her, he opened the scotch and poured some into each cup.

She gazed at it longingly. She’d never been much of a drinker, but a little liquid heat and courage was so tempting. Grimacing, she said, “I’m not supposed to drink with the medication I’m on. Not that it seems to be working so well lately.”

“What is it?”

She pulled the bottle from the pocket of the gym shorts she wore with a T-shirt for pajamas and handed it over. He gave it a doctorly study, taking note of the dosage, the date it was refilled and how many pills were inside, then set it down and nudged the cup closer. “A few sips won’t hurt.”

The scotch was good, smooth, burned her throat and heated her core temperature to almost normal. It felt pleasurable enough that she took another drink. Even her fingertips and toes were warming, and her knees had stopped knocking. If it weren’t for the subject, she could almost pretend this was just a man and a woman who were attracted to each other having a drink together in the middle of the night.

“What did Scooter do when you let him outside?”

The unexpected question made her blink. “He raced out the door, ran into the shadows near the back fence and presumably did his business there, then sniffed around the pool and all the way back to the house. Usual dog stuff.”

He was quiet a moment before saying, “I should have told you, Mace, so you would’ve known but...Scooter doesn’t go out at night.”