He'd liked the gun-the feel, the sound, even the jolt-but he hadn't much cared for what it could do when the target was flesh and blood.

If he had to guess, the rabbit had been shot, small caliber. But why anyone would shoot a rabbit and toss it on Phoebe's steps was a mystery. He carried it through the courtyard gate just as she rushed out with a plastic grocery bag. "We need to put it in here."

"You want to tell me why Bugs ended up dead on your steps?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to have to build a damn graveyard if this keeps up. This is joining the rat I found out here a couple weeks ago, and the snake on the steps a few days ago."

"You had any altercations with any of the neighborhood boys?"

"No. I ran that one down already. I don't think the local hellions are responsible. Put that thing down, will you?"

As he heard distress as well as disgust, Duncan eased the corpse into the bag. "I think you're going to want to take this one in-to forensics or whatever. I'm pretty sure it's got a bullet in it."

She let out a long breath. "I'll deal with it in the morning. Come inside, wash your hands."

He'd go inside, Duncan thought, but washing a little dead rabbit off his fingers wasn't primary.

He followed her in, stepped to the kitchen sink. "Got any beer?" he asked.

"No. Yes. I don't know."

After drying his hands, he simply walked to the refrigerator, opened it. Mostly girl food, as he thought of it. Lots of fruit, fresh vegetables, cartons of yogurt, skim milk. Why did anyone want to skim milk? A question for another time.

He didn't find any beer, but pulled out an open bottle of California chardonnay. "Glasses?"

"Oh." She pushed at her hair as she turned to a cabinet. It was manners that had her reaching for glasses, he thought. She'd have been happier if he'd dried his hands and said good night. So she could think, and so she could handle whatever was going on herself. Tough for her, he decided. He wasn't built that way.

He poured the wine himself, sat at the little table. Which, he knew, left her trapped by those manners into sitting down with him.

"I appreciate you dealing with that," she began. "I hate knowing I'm squeamish enough to balk at doing it myself."

"Who dealt with the rat?"

"Well, I did-with a lot of embarrassing squealing and shuddering.

I called Carter about the snake. That, apparently, went over my level."

"Have you reported this?"

She puffed out her cheeks. "I assumed that some cat dumped the rodent out in the courtyard. I didn't think about it. I initially thought the same about the snake, until Carter said its head was crushed, which is when I had a talk with the mother of the leader of the neighborhood hellions. But it wasn't him. Neither was this. So, yes, I'll take that thing in tomorrow, and I'll report it and have it checked out."

"Anyone got any reason to hassle you other than Meeks?"

She took a sip of wine. "You're quick."

"Not a big leap, Phoebe. Sounds like this Arnie needs a talking-to." Not just quick, she realized. Furious. Quietly, coldly and absolutely furious. "A talking-to isn't what you mean, and it isn't for you. It isn't." she said firmly. "I find the sentiment… Well, to be honest, I don't quite know how I find the sentiment, but we'll come back to that sometime. The point is, if indeed Arnie Meeks needs a talking-to, it's best done in an unofficially official way. If you go getting in his face as my…"

"We're going to have to come up with a term," Duncan said dryly, "as you object to 'boyfriend.'"

"Anyway, it'd put his back up and it makes me look weak. If he's doing this, I can't afford to look weak, I can't give him the satisfaction of believing it's given me any particular bad moments."

"But it has."

"I wish I could say otherwise. I think…"

"Think what?"

She drank again. She wasn't used to talking to anyone about her own business. Not difficult business. The priority was to keep the house a safe zone. "I think there might've been someone watching the house. I caught a glimpse a couple of times, or more heard. He whistles."

"Sorry? He whistles?"

"I know, it sounds odd and off. But I think someone's been around the neighborhood a few times, walking by the house, whistling this same tune. If it's Meeks-and I didn't get a close enough look to say, either way-he's taking a huge chance for more payback. He might've put a friend up to it, or paid someone. But it's a big and foolish risk."

"He got a big kick in the ass. Could be worth it to him. These things can escalate, can't they?"

"They can, of course." She glanced up, seeing in her mind's eye her family tucked safe away for the night. "I'm not discounting the possibility. I'll talk to the people I need to, first thing in the morning."

"I can bunk here. Spare room, spare couch."

"That's a nice offer. But if you do, I'd have to explain it in the morning. At this point, I don't want to give anyone, especially my mother, something more to worry about. She's holding. My getting hurt, and then the shooting, those were hard knocks for her. I don't think she's been out in the courtyard for the last few days. I can't stand to think she'll lose that, too."

Duncan studied his glass, had another long sip of wine. "I believe

I've had too much to drink. I don't think I should drive. As a duly authorized officer of the law, and as my current hostess, you should discourage me from doing so."

Those soft blue eyes, those clear and sober eyes, met hers. "It's as simple as that, Phoebe, if you let it be."

"I don't know why men think women can't defend themselves or their home."

He only smiled. "Do I need to explain the power of the penis to you-so soon after you've experienced its wonder?"

She tapped her fingers on the table. "You can have Steve's-Ava's son's-room for the night. But if it's all the same to you, we won't use your drunken behavior as the reason. It just got late, and seemed easier for you to stay than to drive all the way back to the island."

"Fine. We'll save my drunken behavior for another occasion. Can I ask something that's none of my business?"

"As long as the answer can be that's none of your business, sure you can."

"Is Essie getting any therapy?"

"She was," Phoebe said on a long sigh. "As it's difficult, even with agoraphobia, to get a therapist who'll make house calls, most of it was by phone. There were regular weekly phone sessions for a while, and she tried medications. We thought she was making progress."

"But?"

"Her therapist encouraged her to go out. Just ten minutes, outside the house, to somewhere familiar. They picked Forsythe Park. She'd just walk over to the fountain and back home. She made it over, she got over, and then had a major panic attack. One of the fears is being caught in public, or embarrassed in public, or trapped. She couldn't get her breath, couldn't find her way back. I'd gone after her. I watched her walk over, and went out behind her when she was nearly out of sight. So it took me a while to get to her once she panicked."

She could see it, still see it perfectly. Her mother terrified and disoriented, and her own heart banging in her chest as she sprinted over pavement and grass, pushed aside stunned tourists to reach her. "She was gasping for air, and running. She fell. It was terrible for her. People were trying to help her, but it scared her so much, humiliated her so much."

"I'm sorry."

"I got her back. Held on tight, had her close her eyes, and I walked her back. She hasn't been beyond the courtyard since. That was four years ago. She wouldn't go back into therapy afterward. Gets testy about it," Phoebe added with a little smile. "She's fine in the house. She's happy in the house. Why can't we leave her alone? So we do. I don't know if it's the right thing, but we do."