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I smile back, tug on my cap. And I take his hand. “Hey, I’m Dennis. You joining me on this crusade?”

“Crusade?” Jerry’s grin wavers.

“Yeah, you know. Against the termites!” I reach out to pat his arm, because he gives off hugger vibes, and huggers love that shit, soak it up like a sponge. Give ’em some touchy feely, and we’re best buds.

“Oh. Yeah. Yes.” Jerry’s face collapses into sudden sobriety. “And we should start now. At the top. Or maybe the bottom. Termites move fast, I read, and if the foundation goes, the whole house could go—”

“Jerry.” Bertha reaches up to rub his shoulder; I was right about the touching. “Don’t talk the poor man’s ear off.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” I flash her a Jax-special grin. “I do a lot of talking in my line of work. Nice to have someone else step in for a change.”

Bertha’s face creases into lines of concern. “You’ll have to check the entire house, won’t you?”

“If we want to be very sure.” I offer her a sober nod.

“That will take a while. I’ll make you some tea.” She’s already halfway across the foyer, headed toward a wide doorway on the right side, before I can think to protest.

Tea.

The words hit me in a weird, gripping pain to the chest. What the hell’s up with that? But I know it’s ’cause the last person to offer me tea, aside from being a helluva long time ago, was Maggie.

And how did I repay her?

I tug on my cap, giving in to that nervous-as-hell tic the second I think I got it mastered. “Oh, no. Ma’am. That’s—you don’t need to.”

But she’s gone and Jerry’s halfway through the foyer after her. So I roll on the balls of my feet behind him, eyes scanning.

Keep my eyes and brain busy, and I won’t have time to think.

Through the first door, a massive kitchen sprawls in an expanse of granite countertops and white cabinetry, elegant marble tiling and shining silvery appliances, yadda yadda rich person sparkle. Underneath, two magnetic alarm contacts on the kitchen doorframe, three glass-break sensors along the living room wall. No cameras.

Good to know.

The kitchen opens into a living room—though the wall of windows, beamed ceilings, and ornate stone fireplaces don’t exactly spark cozy living vibes. More like modern art museum wing, especially with all that high-tech wiring on the glass. One camera blinks at the windows, another toward the door at the rear. Could be a slight blind spot right around the hearth area, but unless I’m making like Santa Claus, it’s probably a moot point.

Beyond that, a stretch of glass marks the siding of what might be a literal fucking ballroom. Jesus Christ, this is their summer home? Hate to think what the real house looks like—

Focus, Jax.

Lots of opulence and tech, but as yet, no sign of what Nick might be targeting. Pretty sure he ain’t here for the wainscoting or the manicured rose bushes traipsing through the back gardens any more than the foyer columns.

“No need to wait for me, Jer.” Bertha’s cheerful voice draws my attention to where she’s bustling around the eight-burner stove. “Start at the top. By the time you come down, tea will be ready.”

“That sounds great.” I tug my cap again. I mean, anything’ll be better than standing here watching her make tea. It’s so weirdly familiar and foreign all at once, and it gives me this feeling like there’s spiders crawling under my skin. I ain’t doing anything illegal—well, besides mild impersonation under false pretenses—but being twitchy on a job’s a good way to make mistakes.

“We’ll take the elevator.” Jerry turns back the way we came, and I follow him out of the kitchen like a good little pest control worker bee.

Naturally, they have an elevator.

It’s back in the foyer, tucked out of sight behind the stairs—under the watchful eye of one camera. Jerry leads me inside like it’s the most natural thing in the world, despite his otherwise very blue-collar appearance.

Interesting.

“Have you dealt with a lot of termites?” He pokes at one of the buttons—why are there so many? It’s a three-story fucking house.

“Some.” I tilt a shoulder against the smooth white wall as the elevator lurches up under my feet. “Not a lot, you know, which is good. How about you? Worked here long?”

“Grew up here,” he says, beaming . . . oh? Consider my interest piqued. “My mom used to work for Mr. Morton’s parents.”