Cast the First Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 1)

“Thank you, Daddy!” I get a quick hug before Ash heads downstairs.

I’m not even sure where to look for the confounded bear, but I do a cursory walk-through of Ashley’s bedroom, stopping at the window to peer down at the street. A vehicle has pulled up to the curb, and I spot Silas O’Roarke getting out of his SUV with his daughter. It parches me a little to know that Eve invited him, but she doesn’t burn bridges. And, with Eve, a party isn’t a party unless everyone is included.

I paste on my game face and head downstairs. I’ve thrown a sheet over the construction debris in the dining room, but the place hangs heavy with the scent of sawdust and stain.

Eve is waiting for me in the kitchen, slicing a watermelon. Outside, the handful of the younger guests are playing on the swing set I spent all of last weekend, and then some, building. A couple parents—neighbors—are helping themselves to the adult beverages. I step up to my wife, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck, the memory of her scent still swirling inside me.

“I’m going to chop a finger off if you keep doing that,” she says, glancing up at me.

I reach around and grab a piece of the fruit. She points her weapon at me, turning in my arms. Hazel-green eyes, soft curves despite her toned body—the woman is tenacious about her morning runs—and a tolerance for my eccentricities that still astounds me.

I’m not sure how I got this lucky, but

a guy with my history shouldn’t ask too many questions.

I kiss her, quickly, even as she puts a hand to my chest, pushes me away. “Hey, Silas,” she says over my shoulder.

I turn, holding out a hand.

Her former assistant, now armed with his own prestigious title, meets my grip.

“Rembrandt.” He gives me a small nod, but no smile.

“Silas.” Two could play that game. He’s never been fond of me. Told me flat out once that I’m not good enough for Eve. I guess we agree on that.

“Play nice you two.” Eve uses the tone that earned her the August Vollmer Forensic Science award, and waves her knife. “Don’t make me use this.”

“You’re scaring me,” I say as Silas herds his daughter—Cyra—to the backyard.

“Somebody should.” Eve hands me the bowl of watermelon.

Maybe I should be scared, because Eve really can handle herself. The product of being the only daughter of a cop, and surrounded by brothers.

I take the bowl outside, into the heat and sunshine. Overhead, the sky is a brilliant blue, a perfect Memorial Day weekend, the redolence of cut grass and lilacs in the fresh Minnesota breeze.

Not a day for darkness, for memories, the kind that could cut a man to his soul, so I force away the familiar, murky ache and smile for the gaggle of little girls and their parents.

Why remember anyway? I have too much good in my life to let the past steal it.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

My neighbor Russell—former lineman for the Vikings, and current attorney—lifts his sweating Stella to me even as he continues his conversation with Gia, from across the street. Gia is dark-haired, petite, curvy and newly single, separated from Alex who moved out in a loud domestic event two weeks ago. Eve and I watched from our porch, her hand on my arm. I wasn’t sure if she was holding me back or waiting to push me into the fight.

Frankly, I wasn’t sure myself. My instincts are a little off after three years away from the force.

Russell is leaning down, his attention back on Gia and I fear there’s more to the conversation than I want to know.

Perhaps my instincts aren’t as off as I think.

Silas has helped himself to a beer in the cooler—he’s used to Eve’s expectations by now—and pops the top with his ring as he comes back to stand by me. “They grow up too fast,” he says, referring to Cyra and Ashley and the rest of the first graders. “How’s the book coming?”

Small talk, because he’s a bright guy, a crime scene investigator and one look at my house suggests an answer.

Apparently, writer’s block can’t be solved by remodeling the kitchen, building out the back deck or re-tiling the fireplace in our 1930s craftsman.

“It’s coming.” Silas is the last person I’m about to let dig away at my choices. That critique, I leave to Burke.

“Keeping busy?” I counter. “Lots of crime in Minnetonka these days?”