Roman wanted to kick himself. He kept letting this intruder get the best of him. But it'd been almost a decade since he'd had Charamel's fried chicken and Buko pie, and if yesterday's meal indicated his lola's training, his expectations were high.

Almost every dream he'd had in prison was of this place. Helping in the garden. Picking blackberries off the fence row. Swimming in the pond. Sleeping outside. As soon as the weather warmed, he'd do that again. Another thing he'd missed about freedom. A star-filled sky.

For now, he'd let the girl stay, but the cats were going first thing Monday morning. She claimed no attachment, but he'd bet otherwise. Getting rid of them might convince her to move on. That combined with last night's activities. He didn't understand why he couldn't just throw her stuff on the lawn and make her leave, but he couldn't. Something about the way she'd said she had nowhere to go stabbed his heart. He believed her. But she had all that money, so she could book a five-star hotel if she wanted. Wasn't like she'd be camped in alleys and dumpster diving for food.

Maybe the soft spot came from having every second of his own life dictated for so many years, or the threat of constant danger. He'd dealt with plenty of that. Prisoners who were bigger. Stronger. Older. No conscience. No regard for anything. That's what prison did. It took a person's humanity. It'd taken his for a while. His stomach clenched. If it hadn't been for Terrance, Roman would be a lifer for a crime he did commit. A chill ran up his spine.

There was so much that could hurt this girl; he just couldn't bring himself to force her out. That's why it had to be her decision. And from her expression when he'd seen her in the hallway, his lifestyle would make short work of her wanting to stay. He'd come from the room after Yasmin had fallen asleep. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. Needing a smoke always provided a good chance to get outside and take a breather.

He lit a cigarette, took a deep, uneven drag, and stared at the oak tree near the end of the porch. Once the lumber arrived, he'd construct a makeshift shower. All he had to do was build a frame, enclose it with tarps, and mount a water hose to the top. That would solve the problem of folding his body into the old tub and bathing around her schedule.

He finished his smoke, then went back inside to call and add to the supplies coming from Breaux Bridge. The pie was in the oven, but the girl wasn't in the kitchen. Just as he rounded the corner to his bedroom, she came out, and he jumped back in surprise. She looked like a Hazmat investigator gone crazy. Covered from top to bottom, she wore one of Charamel's old housecoats, the pink gingham with bright blue flowers, along with yellow rubber gloves, a dust mask, protective goggles, orange and green striped knee-high socks pulled over her shoes, and a Christmas scarf printed with reindeer, tied around her head. Extended away from her body as if carrying a bomb was a clothes basket holding his crumpled bed sheets.

"What the hell?"

Her voice muffled through the germ barrier and fogged her eyewear. "I've got to wash these. You need to empty your trash can."

He wished he had his phone on him. He'd never seen such a sight and couldn't help but laugh, and once he got started, couldn't stop.

She pushed past him. "I should burn them."

He wanted to say something, but lost his breath. Staggering back outside, he leaned against the railing and gasped, finally getting control. He'd not laughed this hard in years.

"Trash. Emptied. Now."

He turned to face her. The instructions weren't delivered as a demand. He'd noticed that about her. Everything she said was in the same calm monotone. Her expression was a different story. Last night outside his room, she'd looked like a girl who'd experienced their first roller coaster ride. He'd kind of had the same sensation inside the room. He chuckled.

He should come back with a smartass retort about not dumping the can until it was full of used condoms, but thought better of it. No sarcastic remark could top her getup.

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?"

"Yes." She spun around and disappeared down the hall.

Damn. She was the strangest person he'd ever met. Just as he finished with the trash, the plumber arrived. As Roman let him in, he saw the girl down the road cleaning bird houses. At least she was back in her regular attire.

After the plumber left, Roman made the phone call to Breaux Bridge and added the additional supplies to his order. The dessert sat on the counter, so he helped himself to a slice. He strolled back to the porch again, sat, and listened to the sounds of nature. Closing his lips around the first bite, memories of summers, holidays, and playing dominoes with Charamel while she taught him math without him knowing it swam in his brain.

He finished the slice and returned for one more. He'd skipped breakfast, and it was still hours before dinner so the pie would be lunch. He looked out the kitchen window to see the delivery he'd been expecting. The young car salesman, dangling keys from his finger, met Roman half-way.

"Not sure the wash job did much good after coming down the dirt road, but the interior is still clean."

Roman took the keys. "That's okay. I appreciate you bringing it."

"All the paperwork and manuals are in the glove box. You have my number if you need anything."

The guy got in the car with the co-worker who'd followed and drove away. Roman walked around the F-150 pickup truck, then climbed inside. He loved the smell of a new vehicle. He fired it up and geared down the road, kicking up rocks and red dust. It was the middle of the day, but he wanted to hit the bar. As he passed Zoya, she didn't even look up.

Miles Landry finished reading over the papers concerning the girl's disappearance and shoved them into his briefcase. He'd hit a stroke of luck with the original officer handling the case. He and Charles Prescott had known each other for years.

After fighting traffic, it was almost two when Miles arrived at the police department. He'd called ahead to make sure Prescott was still working. Although his friend was old enough to retire, he'd not opted out yet.

The elevator doors opened and Miles got on and rode up to the third floor. He should use the stairs. God knew he needed the exercise, but he was already on his fifth coffee, and walking was enough to deal with.

The place hadn't changed much. Same standard issue metal desks and cubicles, it reeked of fresh coffee and stale donuts. He stopped for a moment and considered when he'd last visited. At least three years ago about the time he left the FBI and opened his PI business. He'd made sure local guys knew he'd not step on any toes when he got an open case. Law enforcement was a country club of sorts. You didn't get to play on their turf without a membership.

Prescott glanced up from his desk, then pulled his massive frame from the chair and embraced Miles. "Damn, Landry, how you been?"

"Okay. You?"

"Just counting the days."

"When?"

"Come September, I'm out of here. Plan to head for Florida. Ella's mom and dad left her a condo there. We're gonna move in, prop our feet up, and grow old."

Miles laughed. "Don't you mean older? We're already old."

He gestured toward a chair. "You got that right, and I'm feeling it."

Miles plopped into the seat, the leather squeaking with his weight. "Me, too."

Prescott sat again. "So, after you called, I pulled up the file. I'm surprised the step-mother is still pursuing this."

He shrugged. "Says she needs closure. Most people do."

"I guess. So, what do you want to know?"

"You didn't keep the case open long. I'm wondering why. No judgment. Just curious."

The cop shouldered back in his chair. "The step-mom insisted it was kidnapping, but there was no proof. I thought she left of her own accord but still worked the case hard for two months with no luck."

He shifted in his seat again, opened a file folder, and put his glasses on. "I based my decision on two separate conversations I had with former household employees." He scanned the page. "The housekeeper they'd had for years, one Stella Jackson, and the home school teacher, Iris West."

Miles made notes, then looked at his friend. "What'd they have to say?"

Prescott removed his glasses and pitched them down on the desktop. "The step mom made this kid out to be disturbed, but that's not the same description I got from others. Odd. Strange. Obsessive. Lacking social skills, yeah, but not crazy. The tutor claimed she had an IQ of 125. When I arrived at the house, I photographed every inch of the girl's room. The Jackson woman said all the concert tee-shirts the girl cherished were missing. Now, what kind of kidnapper allows his prey to pack their favorite things?"

"I see your point. But those traits sound like she's on the spectrum."

"No way to tell. Her father, David, never allowed her to be tested. That's not all. Her computer and cellphone—gone. Debit and credit cards—never got a hit. She had a college fund she'd cleaned out two weeks before she disappeared, and here's the kicker, Dad had to sign for the withdrawal. Now, you tell me what conclusion you'd get from that."

Miles rubbed his hand over his jaw. "Sounds like the father helped the kid leave."

Prescott flicked his finger. "Bingo."

Dang, even Dad helped his daughter run away.

Do you think Roman's warming up to Zoya?

TEASER: "I'm sure I can get them to help load your stuff."