Page 118 of The Evening Wolves

“I’ll get it,” John-Henry said with a laugh, and he reversed course.

When he opened the door, his father stood there. Glenn Somerset wore a suit, even though it was late, even though it was Christmas. His scarf was the perfect Christmas red. His tie was green and stitched with Christmas trees. The porch light threw deep shadows in the sockets of his eyes.

“I didn’t realize you were having a party,” he said.

“It just sort of happened.” The cold began to soak through John-Henry’s clothes. He adjusted his hand on the storm door.

His father waited and then shook his head. “I just spoke with a…friend. The prosecutor’s office is putting together a plea deal. Cassidy has confessed, among other things, to helping that man Vermilya fabricate the recording. According to him, Vermilya is behind all of it, the entire operation. You’ll be cleared of all charges.”

After what felt like a long time, John-Henry nodded.

“I see that you’re going to make this difficult.” His father’s smile crooked across his mouth. “Very well, I suppose I owe you that much. I’d like you to resume your duties as chief of police. Immediately.”

The wind picked up. A spindrift of snow glittered for a moment, rainbow-like, under the streetlight. And then the wind dropped again, and the silence was like a drumbeat.

“I need to think about it,” John-Henry said.

Maybe it was the cold. Or maybe the red in Glenn Somerset’s face was from something else. “What do you mean, you need to think about it?”

“Excuse me, Father,” John-Henry said. And as he shut the door, he remembered something his son had said not so long ago. “I’m going to spend tonight with my family.”

He joined the others in the living room: Jem and Tean curled up together in the armchair; Theo on the sofa, with Auggie sitting on the floor between his legs; Shaw draped over North, the two of them taking up the rest of the sofa. Colt lay on the floor, playing on his phone. Biscuit had fallen asleep with her head across his legs.

“Everything okay?” Emery asked.

John-Henry nodded.

“We should go,” Theo said. “Let me help you clean up.”

Auggie leaned into Theo’s knee. That was all.

Theo threaded fingers through the dark crew cut, cleared his throat, and said, “But we don’t have to go.”

Emery looked at John-Henry, and John-Henry wondered what his husband had overheard, how much he had understood. Enough was probably the answer. And then Emery smiled and took his hand.

“No,” John-Henry said, surprised at the thickness of his voice. “Please. Stay.”

Mystery Magnet

Keep reading for a sneak preview of Mystery Magnet, the first book in The Last Picks, a new cozy mystery series from Gregory Ashe.

Chapter 1

“Do you like puzzles?”

“Um, yes?”

Okay, maybe not the strongest answer in what was technically a job interview. But cut me some slack; I had a lot going against me. In the first place, I was talking to Vivienne Carver. The Vivienne Carver. In the second place, I was operating on zero sleep because my cross-country drive had taken longer than I expected, and I’d covered the last hundred miles this morning in a bleary-eyed sprint. And third, in spite of everything that had happened, I was still (apparently) the same old Dash.

Which was why the next words out of my mouth were “Actually, yes. I mean, definitely.” The words were like a freight train; I couldn’t stop them as I blurted, “In fact, I love puzzles.”

Vivienne’s eyebrows went up. She looked like she does on TV, in case you’re wondering. And in the author photo on her dust jackets. She was blond, like a lot of women of a certain age, her hair a medium length and layered and curled and styled until it was the size of a basketball. A red sweater—classic Vivienne. A pair of cheaters hung on a chain around her neck, but it was hard to imagine she needed them, because her eyes were a startlingly intense blue. She had great skin. Wrinkles, sure, but she could have passed for twenty years younger.

Okay, ten.

“I think puzzles are the heart of a mystery,” she said. “Don’t you?”

“Well,” I said, “yes.”

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