The tranquility she’d felt, the sense of belonging, was gone now, and she didn’t know if she would ever get it back.

"Is the camera still there, or did they take it away?" she asked.

"It’s still there."

"Is it on?"

"Yes. We don’t want him to know we found it."

"Then he didn’t see the agents when they went into my bedroom?"

"No, they found it in the hall closet," he reminded her. "They kept out of the camera’s eye."

He pulled into the driveway and turned the motor off. She was staring at the house when she asked, "Where would he get something like that? Do they sell transmitters in the stores?"

Before he could answer her, she blurted, "Every time I go into the bedroom, he could be watching."

He put his hand on her knee. "We want him to be watching. This is a great opportunity to push him. You and I are going to be getting hot and heavy in front of the camera."

"Yes, I know what the plan is."

She wasn’t getting cold feet, but she could feel her resolve slipping away. Her life had turned into one of those surreal movies where nothing was as it appeared, where everything that looked benign and innocent was only a mask hiding something sinister. Her charming little house looked inviting, but he had been inside, and there was a camera focused on her bed. "Are you ready to go in?" Her nod was brisk.

Nick could see her anxiety and decided to try to take her mind off the moment. As he opened his door, he said, "Holy Oaks is a pretty town, but I’d still go crazy living here. Where’s the traffic? Where’s the noise?"

She knew what he was doing. He was helping her cope. He could tell when she was getting overloaded, she realized, and that was when he lightened the conversation.

She opened her door and got out. "You like traffic and noise?"

"It’s what I’m used to," he replied. They were looking at each other over the top of the car. "You don’t get a lot of road rage here, do you?"

"Sure we do. When the sheriff’s son, Lonnie, goes joyriding with his friends, a lot of people would love to ram his car into a gully. He’s a menace, and his father isn’t going to do anything about it."

"The local thug, huh?"

"Yes."

She reached back into the car to get her purse while Nick surveyed the neighborhood. There was a big oak in the front yard almost identical in size to the oak in the neighbor’s yard on the corner. On the other side of the white, two-story house was an empty lot. At the end of the long drive was an unattached garage, which meant that when she put her car away, she had to walk to the back door. The two houses were close together, and there were trees and overgrown shrubs all along the sides-too many places for a man to hide. He also noticed there weren’t any outside lights on the house or the garage.

"A burglar’s paradise," he remarked. "Too many concealed areas."

"I’ve got a porch light."

"That’s not enough."

"There are a lot of people here who don’t ever lock their doors, even when they go to bed at night. It’s a small town and everyone feels safe."

"Yeah, well, you’re locking your doors."

"Yoo-hoo, Laurant. You’re home."

Nick turned as a white-haired old lady wearing a bright purple dress with a wide lace collar opened her screen door and stepped out onto her porch. She was clutching a white lace handkerchief in her hand. She appeared to be around eighty years old and was as thin as a lightning rod.

"We had some excitement while you were away."

"You did?" Laurant called back. She went to her neighbor’s picket fence and waited to hear what happened.

"Don’t make me shout, dear," Bessie Jean gently chided. "Come over here and bring that young man with you."

"Yes, ma’am."

"She wants to know who you are," she whispered.

Nick grabbed Laurant’s hand and whispered back, "Show time."

"Lovey-dovey stuff?"

"You got that right, babe." And with that, he leaned down and lightly kissed her.

Bessie Jean Vanderman stood on her porch, taking it all in. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as she watched the smiling couple.

The picket fence ran the perimeter of the front yard. Nick let go of Laurant’s hand to open the gate. As he followed her down the cement walk and up the stairs to the porch, he noticed another elderly woman peeking out at him through the screen. It was dark inside the house and the woman’s face was cast in shadows.

"What was the excitement?" Laurant asked.

"A hooligan broke into your house." Bessie Jean lowered her voice, as if sharing a confidence, and leaned toward Laurant. "I called the sheriff and demanded that he come right over and investigate. I don’t believe there were any arrests made. The sheriff left the hooligan inside and went running to his car. That was certainly a sight to see. He didn’t have the good manners to come and tell me what was happening. You’d best see if anything’s missing." She straightened up and backed away to get a full view of Nick. "Now who is this handsome man standing so close to you? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him in Holy Oaks before."

Laurant quickly made the introductions, but Bessie Jean Vanderman took her time sizing him up. This one doesn’t miss a thing, he thought, spotting the shrewdness in her clear green eyes.

"And what is it you do, Mr. Buchanan?"

"I’m with the FBI, ma’am."

Bessie Jean’s hand flew to her throat. She appeared startled for about two seconds, then recovered. "Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’d like to see your badge, young man."

Nick produced his identification and handed it to her. She gave the badge only a cursory glance before handing it back.

"You took your sweet time."

"Excuse me?"

The criticism was there in her brisk tone when she responded "Sister and I don’t like to be kept waiting."

Nick didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about, and he could tell from Laurant’s puzzled expression that she didn’t have a clue either.

Bessie Jean pulled the screen door open. "I don’t see any reason to waste any more time. Come on inside and you can get started investigating."

"What exactly is it that you want me to investigate?" he asked as he followed Laurant.

Bessie Jean’s sister was waiting for them. Laurant again made the introductions. Viola took off her glasses and tucked them in the pocket of her apron as she came forward to shake his hand. She was shorter, rounder, and a much softer version of her sister.

"We waited and waited," she said. She patted Nick’s hand before she let go. "I’d almost given up on you, but Bessie Jean never lost faith. She was just certain her letter was misplaced, and that’s why she wrote another one."

"It’s not like the FBI to drag their feet," Bessie Jean said. "That’s why I knew my letter must have been lost in the mail. I wrote a second letter then, and when I still didn’t hear-"

"She wrote to the director himself," Viola explained.

Bessie Jean led the way into the living room. It was cool and dark and smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. One of them had been doing some baking, and his stomach rumbled in response. He was hungrier than he’d realized.

Dinner would have to wait. It took his eyes a second to adjust to the darkness, then Viola opened the front window curtains, and he was squinting again. The room was cluttered with antiques. Directly ahead of him was the fireplace. The mantel was lined with candles, and above was a huge oil painting of a gray-haired dog sitting on a burgundy cushion. The animal appeared to be cross-eyed.

Bessie Jean ushered Nick and Laurant to the Victorian sofa, then removed the needlepoint pillow from the wicker rocker and sat down, crossing one ankle over the other as she’d been trained to do by her mother. Her posture was so stiff, she could have balanced a couple of encyclopedias on her head.