It was hard to tell, as Shaw continued to be mauled by Biscuit, how many of the cries for help were real and how many were pretend.

  Perching on the arm of Tean’s chair, John-Henry said, “I bet you have to play games like this with your girls all the time.”

  Tean looked up, blinked, and adjusted his glasses. Then he glanced at Shaw, who was being thoroughly dominated by Biscuit, and smiled. “Jem always has to be the tigerocious maximus.”

  “I bet you could tell these girls how to wrangle a vicious woolly fangtangler.”

  Smile widening, Tean set aside his book. “The woolly fangtangler’s only weakness is when little girls—”

  “Princesses!” Lana corrected him.

  “When princesses call her name and distract her with treats.”

  The girls dutifully jumped down from the couch and began calling Biscuit’s name, holding out broken pieces of potato chips. Biscuit lost interest in Shaw, who was red-faced and giggling now, and went over to the girls.

  “But,” Tean said, his voice rising dramatically, “the rhincerwhompophant loves to charge at little princesses!”

  Auggie made a roaring noise that also incorporated some elephant-like trumpeting. He pretended to paw the ground, and then he charged, lightly headbutting first Lana and then Evie. It immediately turned into a melee, with the girls climbing all over Auggie and Biscuit circling around to nip at his legs. Shaw tried to crawl away, but Biscuit took that as a sign of weakness and went after him.

  John-Henry left them and chose to believe that the screams—even Shaw’s—were expressions of excitement and fun.

  He found Colt, Ashley, Brendon, Anais, Noah, and Rebeca in the dining room. Colt and Ashley were obviously in their own world, and as the adults chatted, they spared them looks that ranged from amused to thoughtful.

  “J-H,” Colt said, “Ash brought you and Pops gifts for, you know, helping us out.”

  “Saving our lives,” Ashley said with a gentle smile.

  “He got Pops a tactical pen.”

  “Bruh!”

  “What? He’s not here. Isn’t that fire, J-H?”

  John-Henry smiled as he sat at the table. “He’s going to love it.”

  Ashley rolled one shoulder, obviously caught between a moment of shyness and his pleasure at John-Henry’s response. Anais took a gift out of her bag and handed it to Ashley, who passed it to John-Henry. The paper had torn in a couple of places, and it was thoroughly—and unevenly—taped at every seam, all the signs that a teenage boy had been in charge of wrapping it. John-Henry opened it.

  “Cologne,” he said, with a smile for Ashley. “I always need a new fragrance. Thank you, Ashley.”

  “Bruh,” Colt said, dissolving into laughter.

  “What?” Ashley said. He poked Colt. “Hey!”

  Colt laughed harder, but he managed to drag himself upright long enough to say, “Night Thrust?”

  “Oh my God,” Brendon said under his breath, and Anais’s eyes got huge.

  “That’s not—” Ashley’s face flooded with color. “I didn’t—” He looked pleadingly at John-Henry. “It’s just the name!”

  “It’s perfect, Ashley,” John-Henry said. “Colt’s just giving you grief; don’t listen to him. It’s a very thoughtful gift.”

  “I wear Night Thrust,” Noah said.

  With an unmistakable trace of horror, Rebeca said, “You do?”

  After a few more thank-yous to make sure Ashley’s feelings weren’t hurt, John-Henry excused himself. He knew he was lucky in many regards, and one was that his son was an inveterate thief, which meant that in a few days or weeks, Night Thrust would end up safely in Colt’s bathroom, and John-Henry could conveniently forget about the well-intentioned but disastrously executed gift.

  Emery was in the front room, with his mom, Cora, Jem, and Nico. After a glance at the cologne, Emery raised his eyebrows and said, “Would you like to share something with the class?”

  “Ha ha. It’s a long story. Actually, not that long—it’s a gift from Ash.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “You’ll be pleased to learn you’re getting the companion fragrance: Black Hole.”

  Emery stared for a full second. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Bunny!”

  “He thinks he’s got jokes, Mom. What did he really get me?”

  John-Henry did what he knew would drive his husband crazy: he smiled.

  “I’m serious, John. I need to be prepared so that I can react appropriately.”

  “What are we talking about?” John-Henry asked, catching Cora’s eye. Lots of things had changed between them over the years, but one thing that hadn’t was Cora’s ability to read him—and she was hiding a smile now.

  “Nothing,” Nico said. “In fact—”

  “We’re giving Nico dating advice,” Aileen said. “It’s so much fun.”

  “I don’t know about fun,” Nico muttered.

  “He’s in a long-distance thing,” Jem said. And then, sourness edging the next words: “With a cop.”

  John-Henry laughed in spite of himself. “I didn’t know it was officially a thing, Nico.”

  “It’s not! It’s—it’s whatever.” But color rose in Nico’s face, and after a moment of wavering, he said, “Jem!”

  “What?” Jem asked with a laugh. “You can’t keep it secret forever.”

  “Keep what secret?” John-Henry asked.

  “Why would you keep anything secret from us?” Emery asked. “That’s counterproductive to my efforts to manage your life for you.”

  Nico’s eyes got very wide, and he looked at Aileen and said, “See?”

  “I know, sweetheart,” Aileen said and patted his knee. “But to be fair, you do seem like a bit of a mess.”

  “Fine,” Nico said. “Yes. It’s a thing. We’re dating.”

  “That’s lovely,” Cora said.

  John-Henry nodded. “Congratulations.”

  “Don’t congratulate me yet. It’s long-distance, and—” Nico gave a despairing shake of his shaggy hair. “I mean, I screw up every relationship when it’s in person, and now I’m supposed to do it long distance?”

  “Maybe it’ll be a help,” Emery said. “Maybe the distance will mitigate your—”

  Nico’s head came up.

  “Uh,” Emery said. “John, what were you saying?”

  John-Henry rolled his eyes, but he said, “I was saying, again, congratulations. And don’t freak out. Long-distance is hard, but it’s not a death sentence.”

  “You need to look at the positives,” Cora said. “Think about how this gives you opportunities to be creative about how you’re going to strengthen your relationship. When I was dating this guy in Kansas City—” She cut off, color flooding her face, her gaze rigidly fixed away from John-Henry.

  “I didn’t know—” John-Henry began. Then he stopped and said, “Was?”

  Some of the tension went out of Cora, and she threw him a smile. “Was. Is officially over. But when I was, we had to work hard to build trust and feel close to each other, which meant coming up with movie nights while we talked on the phone, or reading a book together, that kind of thing.” Then she laughed. “It didn’t work out, obviously, so I’m not the expert.”

  “Dude,” Jem said, “it’s all about taking advantage of the time you’re together, and then working hard when you’re not. Touch. Lots and lots of touch when you’re together. Hold hands. Kiss. Smush naughty bits.”

  “Jeremiah!” Emery barked.

  But Aileen burst out laughing, and after a moment, so did everyone else.

  “And when you’re not together, find ways to open up. Come up with questions you can discuss. Or tell him one thing about yourself every night before bed, and ask him to do the same.” Jem shrugged. “Every relationship is about building trust and making yourself vulnerable. You’ve just got to work a little harder.”

  “In the ’80s,” Aileen said, “we came up with something called phone sex.”

  For a moment, John-Henry thought he’d blown an eardrum.

  Aileen frowned at Nico. “Can’t you do that with FaceTime?”

  “Who,” Emery asked like a man staring into the abyss, “is the ‘we’ in that sentence?”

  That was when Jem officially died from laughing.

  Before too long, Noah and Rebeca started packing up their kids. John-Henry and Emery walked them to the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Rebeca said. “I’m sorry for everything that happened. I’m sorry we couldn’t help.”

  “You weren’t even in town,” Emery said.

  “But we’re still sorry,” Noah said.

  “Thank you,” John-Henry said. “Things are going to work out. And thank you for tonight.”

  Cora was next, with Nico on her heels. “You’re sure she can stay tonight? I can wake her up.”

  “She and Lana are totally zonked. She’s fine.”

  She kissed his cheek and said, “Happy birthday a day late.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too. And don’t forget we’re going to have a talk about Evie’s comment to my mom.”

  “What’s that about?” Emery asked.

  “Just wait,” John-Henry said.

  Nico’s hug took him by surprise, and his hug with Emery lasted even longer.

  “Next time he comes to town,” John-Henry said, “let’s double.”

  Tears glittered in Nico’s lashes, but he smiled. “Yeah. Ok.”

  “Better idea,” Emery said. “I’d love to have coffee with him.”

  They could still hear Nico laughing as he walked down the sidewalk.

  The Boones left next—after a lot of pleading from Ashley that he be allowed to spend the night. He brightened, though, when Emery told him again how much he liked the tactical pen.

  “You’re such a softy,” John-Henry said as they trooped toward the truck.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And then he caught his mother’s arm as she tried to sneak past. “Absolutely not.”

  Aileen laughed as she put on her scarf. “I’m staying with June Louise tonight, bunny. We’re going to watch Dr. Zhivago and drink mulled wine.”

  “One glass. More than that isn’t good for your heart.”

  She kissed his cheek, kissed John-Henry’s cheek, and slipped out into the night.

  As Emery and John-Henry started toward the living room, a knock came at the door.

  “If Noah and Rebeca forgot a child, I’m donating it,” Emery said.

  “I’ll get it,” John-Henry said with a laugh, and he reversed course.

  When he opened the door, his father stood there. Glenn Somerset wore a suit, even though it was late, even though it was Christmas. His scarf was the perfect Christmas red. His tie was green and stitched with Christmas trees. The porch light threw deep shadows in the sockets of his eyes.

  “I didn’t realize you were having a party,” he said.

  “It just sort of happened.” The cold began to soak through John-Henry’s clothes. He adjusted his hand on the storm door.

  His father waited and then shook his head. “I just spoke with a…friend. The prosecutor’s office is putting together a plea deal. Cassidy has confessed, among other things, to helping that man Vermilya fabricate the recording. According to him, Vermilya is behind all of it, the entire operation. You’ll be cleared of all charges.”

  After what felt like a long time, John-Henry nodded.

  “I see that you’re going to make this difficult.” His father’s smile crooked across his mouth. “Very well, I suppose I owe you that much. I’d like you to resume your duties as chief of police. Immediately.”

  The wind picked up. A spindrift of snow glittered for a moment, rainbow-like, under the streetlight. And then the wind dropped again, and the silence was like a drumbeat.

  “I need to think about it,” John-Henry said.

  Maybe it was the cold. Or maybe the red in Glenn Somerset’s face was from something else. “What do you mean, you need to think about it?”

  “Excuse me, Father,” John-Henry said. And as he shut the door, he remembered something his son had said not so long ago. “I’m going to spend tonight with my family.”

  He joined the others in the living room: Jem and Tean curled up together in the armchair; Theo on the sofa, with Auggie sitting on the floor between his legs; Shaw draped over North, the two of them taking up the rest of the sofa. Colt lay on the floor, playing on his phone. Biscuit had fallen asleep with her head across his legs.

  “Everything okay?” Emery asked.

  John-Henry nodded.

  “We should go,” Theo said. “Let me help you clean up.”

  Auggie leaned into Theo’s knee. That was all.

  Theo threaded fingers through the dark crew cut, cleared his throat, and said, “But we don’t have to go.”

  Emery looked at John-Henry, and John-Henry wondered what his husband had overheard, how much he had understood. Enough was probably the answer. And then Emery smiled and took his hand.

  “No,” John-Henry said, surprised at the thickness of his voice. “Please. Stay.”

  Mystery Magnet

  Keep reading for a sneak preview of Mystery Magnet, the first book in The Last Picks, a new cozy mystery series from Gregory Ashe.

  Chapter 1

  “Do you like puzzles?”

  “Um, yes?”

  Okay, maybe not the strongest answer in what was technically a job interview. But cut me some slack; I had a lot going against me. In the first place, I was talking to Vivienne Carver. The Vivienne Carver. In the second place, I was operating on zero sleep because my cross-country drive had taken longer than I expected, and I’d covered the last hundred miles this morning in a bleary-eyed sprint. And third, in spite of everything that had happened, I was still (apparently) the same old Dash.

  Which was why the next words out of my mouth were “Actually, yes. I mean, definitely.” The words were like a freight train; I couldn’t stop them as I blurted, “In fact, I love puzzles.”

  Vivienne’s eyebrows went up. She looked like she does on TV, in case you’re wondering. And in the author photo on her dust jackets. She was blond, like a lot of women of a certain age, her hair a medium length and layered and curled and styled until it was the size of a basketball. A red sweater—classic Vivienne. A pair of cheaters hung on a chain around her neck, but it was hard to imagine she needed them, because her eyes were a startlingly intense blue. She had great skin. Wrinkles, sure, but she could have passed for twenty years younger.

  Okay, ten.

  “I think puzzles are the heart of a mystery,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “Well,” I said, “yes.”

  Vivienne opened her mouth.

  I tried to stop myself, I really did. But it was another blurt: “And no.”

  Vivienne closed her mouth.

  “But mostly yes,” I said. “I mean, yes. Absolutely. The heart of a mystery novel.”

  She opened her mouth again.

  Sometimes, being Dashiell Dawson Dane was like being in a horror movie: you knew you weren’t supposed to go down into the basement alone to check the circuit breaker, or you knew you weren’t supposed to get freaky with the rude but cute jock in the backseat of his car at Make-out Point, or (just for the sake of example) you knew you weren’t supposed to keep talking. But you just. couldn’t. help yourself.

  “It’s just—the puzzle,” I said, “and the human element.”

  Vivienne closed her mouth again. Her eyes really were stunning. That was, apparently, the kind of thing I could think while I was having an out-of-body experience.

  But then she smiled and said, “Quite right, Dashiell. That’s well put. The puzzle and the human element. Very well put. Not that I would expect any less from you. I read ‘Murder on the Emerald Express.’ It was very clever. Quite the send-up of Christie, I think.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And your parents, of course.”

  And there it was. The whole reason I was here. Not because I’d written a couple of short stories that had eventually landed in Black Mask and Flying Aces. But because I was the son of Patricia Lockwood (Mommy’s Sleeping and Blind Furies and What the Laundress Saw) and Jonny Dane (the Talon Maverick series). Because, to put it bluntly, Vivienne was doing her colleagues a favor.

  Not that I cared. Well, not too much. I needed to get away from Providence, and here I was—about as far as you could get.

  “How are your parents?” Vivienne asked. “I haven’t seen them in ages.”

  “They’re all right.”

  “And what are they doing these days?”

  “Oh, you know. Mom stays busy with the chickens, and Dad has his guns.”

  Vivienne laughed, and I tried to smile, fighting the familiar tightness in my chest.

  “Portsmouth really is so charming,” Vivienne murmured. “I’ve only been once, and your parents were such wonderful hosts. I’d love to see them again.”

  “I’m sure they’d love to have you visit.” I dredged up another smile. “I hope you like skeet shooting.”

  That made her laugh again. She settled back into her chair—it was so massive that it was really more of a throne—and examined me more carefully. After a moment of that long, considering stare, I looked away. Her study, where we were having this interview, was exactly what a famous author’s study should look like: a cavernous fireplace, built-in bookcases (filled with her own titles, of course—all the books in the Matron of Murder series, and translations into dozens of languages), a massive cherrywood desk. She had a laptop, a sleek little aluminum thing, but the typewriter that featured so prominently in the Matron of Murder TV adaptation had pride of place on the desk. Posters from the show lined the walls. The actor they’d picked looked remarkably like Vivienne, even though the protagonist in the books, Genevieve Webster, was nominally fictional; I wondered if she’d had any say in the casting. Interspersed with the posters were photos of Vivienne. Vivienne with politicians. Vivienne with celebrities. Vivienne accepting honorary degrees and keys to various cities. Pictures of Vivienne when she’d been younger—glamorous, but not quite beautiful. Apparently, she owned (or had owned) a yacht.