I, Michael Bennett (Michael Bennett 5)

My kids’ loving nanny, Mary Catherine, appeared in the miraculously open doorway with arms crossed over her chest. Even with only one peeper working, I could see that the expression on her face was more than vaguely familiar. It was the same one I’d just seen on Tara’s face before she gave me a face full of gravel.

Will Shakespeare was wrong, I thought, rubbing at my eye as moths whacked into each other over my head.

Hell hath no fury like two women scorned.

Standing there, I suddenly thought of a dumb expression from my childhood. It arrived in

stantly, like a mental text message from Mike Bennett, circa 1978.

Your ass is grass, it said.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Michael Bennett, finally home, drunk, after his many adventures abroad,” Mary Catherine said, clapping her hands together sarcastically.

“That is who just dropped you off, correct?” she said, cocking her head. “A broad?”

She had me dead to rights. Even under the direst of circumstances, I always made every effort to contact her about my status and inquire about what was going on at the house, about the kids. And I hadn’t. I’d gone off to work pretty much yesterday, and I hadn’t lifted the phone once. Not only that, but I knew full well what Mary Catherine thought of my new friend and colleague, Tara McLellan.

With nothing in the holster, I tried drunken charm.

“Mary Catherine, hello,” I said with a courtly bow. “Long time no see. How is everything?”

“Bad, Mr. Bennett,” she said, tears welling in her blue eyes. “Bad and about to get worse.”

“Mary Catherine, come on. I can explain,” I said.

She stood there, glaring furiously at me through her soft, wet eyes.

“Actually, I can’t,” I said after a moment. “Only that I screwed up. I should have called you.”

“And told me what? That you were going to be late tonight because you were out on a date?”

I stood there, wincing, as I remembered what Mary Catherine had said on our walk. The date I was supposed to plan but never did.

“It’s not what you think. That was Tara McLellan, the prosecutor on the Perrine case,” I said. “It was work, Mary Catherine. She came up to the Newburgh meeting to discuss the feds helping out with the gang problem.”

Mary just stood and stared at me, the sadness in her blue eyes really killing me inside.

“You mean the Newburgh town meeting that ended at ten?” she finally said.

CHAPTER 79

“YES,” I SAID. “We had dinner after.”

“Dinner,” Mary nodded. “How special. Three hours of it, too. I guess I can toss the plate of ziti the kids and I saved for you. And the slice of cake from Jane’s birthday.”

“Shit,” I said, closing my good eye. “Mary Catherine, I completely forgot. I’m sorry. Let me come in and we’ll talk about it.”

“Oh, by all means come in,” Mary Catherine said, opening the screen door, which gave out a deafening squeak.

I saw then that she was dressed—jeans, a T-shirt, and a backpack on her back. No! Wait. What?

“The house is all yours, because I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m leaving, Michael Bennett. And I’m not coming back.”

“Mary Catherine, come on. I know you’re angry, but that’s crazy. It’s … it’s one in the morning.”

“No,” Mary Catherine said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s actually two in the morning, and I won’t come on. Not anymore.”

She stepped forward suddenly. For a second, I thought she was going to belt me one. It was almost worse when she stopped herself and didn’t.