phase of his split with Laura, he’d made a point of walking to the front door and asking for Marissa, as if he were a boy asking a girl out on a date. Laura had been icy and abrupt if she spoke to him at all. Now, he just texted.

Marissa didn’t bother texting back. She flew out the door and into the passenger seat of his SUV. “I thought you’d never come,” she declared. “She thinks I shouldn’t go to the game. That I should protest those boys! The ones that ‘ruined the mixer.’ That’s what she said. Swear to God!”

“She just wants you to stay safe,” Cooper said.

Marissa choked out a laugh. “Yeah right.”

“It’s what all parents want.”

“She wants punishment. She wants them off the team. I had to beg her to stay out of it. She’s just overall pissed and taking it out on all of us. Swear to God, David looks like he wants to run!”

“I hope not.”

Marissa looked at him. “Oh, you’re right. If we lose David, Mom’ll be crazy.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t throw you under the bus. You don’t want her bugging you either.”

“She’s your mom. Give her a break.”

“Fine. But I know we’re on the same side,” she said with confidence.

They drove to the Whelan house, and Cooper climbed out of his seat, surprising Marissa, who’d already jumped from the car and was heading to the front door. She stopped short and looked back at him.

“You’re coming in?” she asked, brows knitted.

“Yes.”

“Why? We’re kinda late.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you to the game.”

* * *

Jamie scrubbed at the pan with its baked-on egg and cream sauce. Emma had gotten tired of waiting and attempted her own carbonara from the new bucatini Jamie had picked up at the grocery store. Jamie had been hovering around her sister, trying to guide and help. Unfortunately, the carbonara took a little more skill than Emma could muster, and the eggs had scrambled rather than melting into the sauce. Emma had eaten it anyway, and Jamie had followed suit. Harley had politely declined, saying she would get something at the game.

Now Emma was on the couch, watching one of her DVR episodes. Beside her sat Theo’s dog, Bartholomew, “Dummy”; Theo had dropped off the dog with Emma at Emma’s request. When Bartholomew had bounded into the Whelan house and Emma had announced that Dummy was spending the night, Jamie had looked at Theo with questions in her eyes, to which Theo had signaled for Jamie to walk her back to her van.

“I didn’t realize Emma liked your dog so much. It was hard to tell,” Jamie admitted.

“Oh, Emma’s a huge fan. Bartholomew, and his predecessor, Seymour, have ‘babysat’ Emma for years. Your mom worked nights and the dogs were sometime companions for Emma. Mostly she was fine. But whenever she asked if she could keep ‘Dummy’—which was also her name for Seymour, by the way—I sent her home with the dog. It allayed her anxiety, although your mom was not a dog person.”

“You got that right. Thanks, Theo. You’re a good friend,” Jamie said, her throat tight.

Theo patted Jamie’s arm. “So, you’re staying?”

“Yes.”

Theo couldn’t hide her relief, though she quickly masked it. “Emma can almost be by herself.”

“Almost” being the operative word.

“Did something happen today, for her to ask for the dog?”

Theo made a face. “Nothing really new.... There’s a homeless man who stops by to see Emma now and again. He has an interest in her. I don’t think he’s . . . a problem, but I keep an eye out whenever he’s around. He tries to engage Emma, but she ignores him, mostly. He came by today and she was a little rattled. I told her to go in the back and straighten the inventory—which she loves to do—and I waited till he left. But she’s been kind of anxious ever since. It wasn’t long after that that she asked if Bartholomew could spend the night with her. This is the first time since you’ve been here that she’s wanted him.”

Jamie had thought that over as Theo climbed into her van and waved a goodbye. She wondered if she should talk to Emma about it, but she’d let the matter slide through the bucatini experiment.

Now, Jamie looked at the back of her sister’s head and wondered. Emma didn’t hug or touch Bartholomew, but she liked the dog sitting right beside her, which he did. The current television show was Halloween-themed, and they were making a dish of orange pumpkin and black bat-shaped ravioli.

Jamie’s gaze drifted toward the television and the cable box. Harley was begging for a streaming device to plug in to the TV because Mom’s television was ancient by the standards of a fast-changing digital age. Jamie had called the cable company to change the name on the account and had run into a raft of red tape, which she’d been prepared to plod through, but the company had also wanted to upgrade her system with new boxes. But that would mean losing all the programs already taped. Jamie had put the brakes on that, knowing Emma might go into full meltdown if her programs were wiped out in the name of progress.

Headlights glowed through the window and Emma’s head jerked around. Bartholomew, too, grew alert.

“It’s Harley’s ride to the football game,” Jamie said.

Emma and the dog both kept staring. Bartholomew started growling low in his throat, picking up on Emma’s tension, maybe.

Jamie walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Harley!” Jamie yelled up to her.

“Coming!” was the muffled reply, then Harley’s door flew open and she was hurrying down the steps. She wore jeans and sneakers and a rather nice red blouse Jamie could see beneath her black jacket. Her hair was tied back at her nape and there was the hint of makeup on her eyes.

Hmmm, Jamie thought.

Emma said, “Boys are bad.”

“Boys are not bad,” Harley snapped back, taking offense. Then, remembering who was dispensing this advice, she relaxed a

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