The Undercover Affair. Cathryn Parry

      The room was quiet. Everyone was staring at her, it seemed, waiting for her to say something.

      Finally, Pete leaned forward. Maybe he felt responsible for giving her a good recommendation. “I’m sure that Kitty is expecting her interior to be redesigned,” he said gently.

      “But that is not police work.”

      “We have approved contractors we’ll send to assist you. And you’ll get a budget, courtesy of the congressman, to implement the design.”

      It dawned on her that they assumed that the one year of design school she’d had under her belt, years before she’d joined the force, was enough to fulfill this crazy cover story. She shook her head, exasperated.

      “We’ve invested in you,” Commander Harris chided her. “The task force needs you to continue the cover for two more weeks.”

      She resisted the urge to throw up her hands in defeat.

      But was it defeat, really? She would be doing investigative police work, as well. That was the most important thing. There was always the hope that she could catch the criminals in the act and make a collar. The potential upsides were too good to pass up.

      Besides, she really couldn’t refuse them now.

      “Fine,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll call Karen Talbott this afternoon and set up a meeting.”

      “Just keep your cover,” Commander Harris repeated. “Whatever you do, it is imperative that you not compromise your cover.”

      * * *

      JOHN UNLOCKED THE front door of his family’s restaurant, then flipped the window sign to Open. Outside, the sun was rising, although clouds were gathering on the horizon. Across the street, he saw the vacant public parking lot and behind that, sand dunes. In the far distance, across the blue-gray sea, were fishing vessels and the season’s early lobster boats, chugging out to check the baited traps.

      He drew a hand through his hair. Another summer coming. Every morning was the same. The years and seasons were all starting to run together. He felt like he was spinning his wheels here, but he didn’t know what else to do.

      From the corner of his eye, he heard his brother cough softly. Patrick slouched on a bar stool, electronic device in hand, absorbed as he played a video game. The soft glow of the screen in the early morning gloom lit up his pimply face and scraggly hair.

      John could never get too mad at Patrick. His brother was young. He’d been at home when all the bad stuff in their family had gone down.

      “You want to help me start the coffee?” John asked. “Andy’s crew will be coming soon.”

      Patrick pretended that he didn’t hear him. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending, because he was wearing earbuds. He reached down to scratch his lower leg, which made his pants ride up. The ankle bracelet, placed there by the county court system, showed clearly.

      John stalked over and pulled his brother’s jeans back into place. “People will be coming in,” he said tersely, once his brother had removed his earbud to glare at John. “You need to help us in the kitchen.”

      Without a word, Patrick sullenly got up from his chair. The game went into his back pocket. Patrick shambled into the kitchen. When he was gone, John leaned over, head in hands. Sometimes he had no idea what to do with his brother beyond getting him through his next court date without incident. June 5. Just get through to June 5. The goal was to get Patrick released from court-ordered house arrest without prison time. Since he’d been through a rehab session successfully, the lawyer had told them that Patrick’s release was a strong likelihood, as long as John could help Patrick keep to the conditions set forth by the court.

      If John wasn’t successful...

      His mother poked her head from the kitchen. “I’m thinking of making clam chowder today.”

      “Sounds good, Mom,” he said wearily. “I’ll write it up as a lunch special.”

      She nodded and disappeared. She seemed okay this morning, and that was good.

      When John had first returned home, she’d been upset about his dad and his brother—understandably—and he’d had to calm her on nearly a daily basis, it seemed. Only lately did she seem like herself again. She was humming an upbeat tune in the kitchen, and he was glad for it.

      The rumble of a truck engine sounded outside. A quick glance told him that Andy’s crew had arrived for breakfast—his mother’s special muffins and their morning coffee fill-up. His mom made everything from scratch; even the coffee was from freshly ground beans. Andy was a longtime customer, and he knew their routines. He knew about what had happened to John’s brother Justin, of course, and John’s dad, but John wasn’t sure how much Andy knew about Patrick’s recent legal problems. From what John could tell, Andy wasn’t aware of the arrest and conviction, and John’s promise to the court to watch his brother. John hoped Andy didn’t know, anyway.

      Feeling wary—always wary—he met Andy at the door. Wordlessly, still sleepy, Andy handed over the large insulated coffee carafe, followed by the empty plastic cooler that John filled with lemonade for them each working morning.

      “Gonna be a nice day, even with those clouds,” Andy remarked.

      “Yeah. Summer’s coming.” But no sooner had John let the words out, then a familiar black Audi pulled off the coast road and into their little lot. The hot blonde driving made her habitual, tight, three-point turn, then backed her two-seater into an equally tight space between Andy’s van and the restaurant’s front door.

      John closed his eyes briefly and groaned silently.

      “Look who’s back,” Andy said cheerfully. “The congressman must’ve liked Lyn’s designs.” He winked at John. “Go. Talk to her. Give her a chance.”

      While Andy headed inside the restaurant, whistling loudly, John folded his arms, kept silent, and watched. Andy was wrong about her, he felt it. Something was definitely off—something suspicious—and if she was an investigator of some sort, then that was trouble his family didn’t need.

      He stepped outside the restaurant and approached her car. Planted his feet.

      Lyn Francis—or whatever her name was—had hopped out of the Audi.

      John caught a quick glimpse of the sleek leather interior before she shut the door. The shelf where the back seat would have been was stuffed with fabric samples and paint-chip wheels. Could be part of a cover story. He felt his nails dig into his palms. When she finished locking the door and turned, noticing him standing there, she smiled. But her gaze lingered on his face, and her smile died.

      Yeah, he was irritated—mainly that he needed to even do this in the first place, that his brother’s criminal behavior had put him in this position. He was aware that his mood likely showed all over his face. He’d been told he had a look, a scowl that he used on enemies as if shooting at them in a firefight, and yes, he was pretty sure he was giving her that exact look now.

      She swallowed, as if surprised that he was angry with her. But he gave her credit; she didn’t wilt under his scrutiny. Instead, she lifted up her rib cage, stiffening her back as she stared him down.

      His gaze dropped. A bump showed at her waist, beneath her shirt. A gun. She was carrying a concealed sidearm—he was positive of that.

      “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?” Lyn gave him a saucy smile, oblivious to his thoughts.

      He didn’t trust her. After what Patrick had put him through, John didn’t trust anybody on their word, not without his own verification.

      He planted his feet wider and kept his gaze directly on her eyes. Pretty, soft blue eyes. But even pretty girls with soft blue eyes could be deceitful.

      “You’re a cop,” John said roughly. “Aren’t you?”