Page 137 of Flint’s Strike

Parker’s burgundy Toyota and Nate’s Impala are already parked in a large paved area in front of the garage, and I pull in next to them. High-pitched, excited barking comes from behind the screen door. If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone told Belle I was bringing her treats.

Bag of turkey chews in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other, I limp up the three steps.

Parker’s there before I can ring the bell, a wide smile on her face. But before she opens the door, the grin falls away. “Eliot.” Her gaze drops to my shirt. To the short sleeves. The scars winding around my left bicep almost to my elbow.

The dog is about ready to bust through the screen, but Parker tells her to sit, then tries to squeeze around her and out the door.

Belle has other ideas. She darts between Parker’s legs, and I take two quick steps back, then stop so she can sniff me.

“Give me the wine. You make nice with Belle.” Parker eases the bottle from my hand, leaving me free to tear the top off the bag and fish out a large piece of dried turkey leather.

Belle’s tail wags so fast, it’s nothing but a brown and gray blur. She sits, staring up at me with bright blue eyes, tongue hanging out of her mouth. As soon as I give her the treat, she’s off like a shot toward the back of the house, giving me and Parker a moment alone.

“You…clean up well,” she says, setting the wine on the railing, then running her hand from my shoulder down my right arm.

“Figured if I was gonna stop hidin’, today was as good of a day as any.” The words want to stick in my throat, but I force them out, then lift my gaze to Parker’s.

Her fingers curl gently around my bicep. “Come here.”

The kiss goes on for so long, my jeans are getting tight until Nate calls from inside, “Hey, hot stuff. You gonna stand out there all day?”

Parker tosses a glance over her shoulder. “Settle down, Pookie. We ain’t on the clock.”

An engine rumbles, the sound getting louder by the second. “That’ll be Connor, Isabel, and Veronica.” She passes me the wine. “We should probably go in so Nate can get another joke or two out of his system before you meet them.”

I follow her through the door. “I’m never gonna live that down. Am I?”

“Nope.”

With her fingers curled around mine, Parker leads me into the foyer. Warm tile floors lead to a spacious living room with an L-shaped sofa, fireplace, and several overstuffed chairs. The kitchen smells like freshly baked bread.

She tilts her head toward another door that leads to a large deck and a great view of the lake. “Grace and AJ are out back.”

I’ve worked with AJ on half a dozen cases over the years, and met Grace last week, but the first step from the house to the deck feels like I’m climbing a mountain.

AJ’s at the smoker on the far end, the scent of hickory rolling toward the lake in a slow, winding plume. Grace, sitting in a deck chair a few feet away, goes rigid when she sees me. The glass in her hand trembles, ice clinking softly against the sides, and AJ turns.

“Eliot. Glad you could make it.” He hooks the tongs to the side of the smoker before striding over to me and offering me his hand. Parker slips past him and leans against the empty chair next to Grace.

“Thanks for havin’ me, Chief.”

His grip is firm, and he holds on for a beat longer than necessary. “I ain’t the chief here. It’s AJ.”

“Good to know. AJ. I…uh…brought a bottle of wine. Didn’t know what y’all liked.”

AJ chuckles. “By the time we’re full up? A little of everything.” He sets the bottle on a long table covered in deep blue linen.

Before I can decide where to stand—or think much of the fact that AJ didn’t look twice at my left arm—Belle bounds up onto the deck at full speed, a bright yellow tennis ball clamped in her jaws. She skids to a stop at my feet, and drops the ball right in front of me.

“Well, that’s somethin’.” AJ shakes his head. “She likes you. Go on, then. Just don’t throw it into the water or you’ll be responsible for dryin’ her off.”

I take the slobbery tennis ball to the railing. The grafts pull tight halfway through the throw, but the ball still sails a good twenty feet. Belle takes off like she’s about to run a marathon.

Parker comes up beside me with an old towel. “There’s a whole pile of these in the box by the door. Belle isn’t known for dry mouth.”

“Clearly.” I take the towel, and wait for Belle to trot back up onto the deck. But she doesn’t have the ball with her this time, and heads right for Grace.

“Good girl,” Grace coos, scratching behind Belle’s ears for a moment before she stands, setting her glass on the arm of the chair. Her blue eyes dart between me and Parker, who takes my hand again.