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

“Yeah, I will.” I kiss her cheek and pry myself off the floor. I’m doing a cursory search of the laundry room, just in case, when Eve calls us downstairs.

She’s crafty, that Eve. She’s dished up the entire meal—chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans—as if it might be homemade, and set it on the table. It’s important to her to eat like her family did, all six of them at 6 p.m. sharp. Her mother is old school—vegetables, bread, starches, pot roast—it can make Eve a little crazy to try and keep up.

She does well enough for my tastes. I don’t remember a home cooked meal beyond the age of twelve.

We sit and Eve makes us pray—it’s the Lutheran in her—and we dive in.

She’s silent, lost in her thoughts as she flattens her mashed potatoes.

“What?” Instincts.

She glances at Ashley, gnawing on her chicken leg. “It’s nothing.”

Oh. It’s that kind of case.

I turn to Ashley, our talker. She can fill all the gaps between us and she tells me a story about her day that involves something on the playground I probably should be paying attention to, but my gaze is on Eve. And the way she just keeps pounding those mashed potatoes.

Her deep sighs.

The catch of her lower lip between her teeth when she thinks I’m not looking.

Every once in a while, she looks up and feigns a smile.

Something terrible happened.

“Can I be excused?” Little Miss Manners asks and I nearly shoo her away.

Eve has reason to look worried the moment Ashley leaves.

“What is it, babe?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Eve—”

“No, it’s…” She sighs again and shakes her head. “It’s not good timing.”

I frown.

“Another teenager was gunned down today, in the Phillips neighborhood.”

Oh no. When she meets my eyes, I see compassion. Okay, so the timing sucks and the Somali brotherhood was getting bolder by the day. “How old?”

“Fourteen.”

I bite back a swear word because Eve has rules, but yeah, there’s a darkness that stirs inside me when a kid gets killed.

She runs her hands down her face. “That’s the third girl in three weeks.”

I knew that, but hearing it from Eve, the fatigue in her voice, sets a fire deep inside.

Come back, and let’s solve them together.

“Listen, Batman, you’re off watch. I can handle it.” Eve says as she gets up. “I’m going for a run. Make sure Ash doesn’t watch any television. I don’t want her seeing the news.”

I carry my plate to the sink, run water. Dots bead up around the temporary patch I made in the seal around the faucet.

Ashley is sprawled on the sofa, playing some pony video game so I head into my office and sit down at the computer. What kind of idiot promises his agent he’ll have something decent in five days?