"Let me help," he offered, taking off his coat. Before she could stop him, he was kneeling beside her, pushing the wrench. The pipe was old, and the fitting would not budge. He gave up, saying, "You'll probably have to cut it off."

"No I won't," she countered, gently pushing him out of the way. She braced her foot on the cabinet behind her and pushed with all of her might. The wrench turned slowly, Sara moving forward with it.

She flashed a smile of accomplishment. "See?"

"You're amazing," Jeffrey said, meaning it. He sat back on his heels, watching her take the pipe apart. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"A long list of things," she mumbled.

He ignored this, asking, "Was it clogged?"

"I dropped something down it," she answered, digging around the P trap with her finger. She pulled something out, cupping it in her palm before he could see it.

"What?" he asked, reaching toward her hand.

She shook her head, keeping her hand fisted.

He smiled, more curious than ever. "What is it?" he repeated.

She sat up on her knees, holding her hands behind her back. Her brow furrowed in concentration for a moment, then she held her hands in front of her, fisted.

She said, "Pick one."

He did as he was told, tapping her right hand.

She said, "Pick another one."

He laughed, tapping her left hand.

Sara rolled her wrist, opening her fingers. A small gold band was in the palm of her hand. The last time he had seen the ring, Sara had been tugging it off her finger so she could throw it in his face.

Jeffrey was so surprised to see the ring he did not know what to say. "You told me you threw that away."

"I'm a better liar than you think."

He gave her a knowing look, taking the wedding band from her. "What are you still doing with it?"

"It's like a bad penny," she said. "Keeps turning up."

He took this as an invitation, asking, "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

She sat back on her heels, sighing. "I don't know. Probably catching up at work."

"Then what?"

"Home, I guess. Why?"

He slipped the ring in his pocket. "I could bring dinner by."

She shook her head. "Jeffrey-"

"The Tasty Pig," he tempted, knowing this was one of Sara's favorite places to eat. He took her hands in his, offering, "Brunswick stew, barbecued ribs, pork sandwiches, beer baked beans."

She stared at him, not answering. Finally she said, "You know this won't work."

"What have we got to lose?"

She seemed to think this over. He waited, trying to be patient. Sara let go of his hands, then used his shoulder to help her stand.

Jeffrey stood as well, watching her sort through one of many junk drawers. He opened his mouth to speak to her but knew there was nothing he could say. The one thing he knew about Sara Linton was that when she had made up her mind, there was no going back.

He stood behind her, kissing her bare shoulder. There should be a better way to say good-bye, but he could not think of one. Jeffrey had never been good at words. He was better at action. Most of the time, anyway.

He was walking down the hall when Sara called to him.

"Bring silverware," she said.

He turned around, sure he had not heard right.

Her head was still bent down as she rummaged through the drawer. "Tomorrow night," she clarified. "I can't remember where I put the forks."

Acknowledgments

Victoria Sanders, my agent, served as my anchor throughout this entire process. I do not know how I could have done any of this without her. My editor, Meaghan Dowling, was instrumental in helping me define this book and has my heartfelt gratitude for making me rise to the challenge. Captain Jo Ann Cain, chief of detectives for the city of Forest Park, Georgia, kindly shared her war stories. The Mitchell Cary family answered all of my plumbing questions and gave me some interesting ideas. Michael A. Rolnick, M.D., and Carol Barbier Rolnick lent Sara some credibility. Tamara Kennedy gave great advice early on. Any mistakes made in the above areas of expertise are entirely my own.

Fellow authors Ellen Conford, Jane Haddam, Eileen Moushey, and Katy Munger have my thanks; they each know why. Steve Hogan waded through my neuroses on a daily basis, and for that he should get some kind of medal. Readers Chris Cash, Cecile Dozier, Melanie Hammet, Judy Jordan, and Leigh Vanderels were invaluable. Greg Pappas, patron saint of signage, made things very easy. B.A. offered good advice and a quiet place to write. S.S. was my rock in a hard place. Lastly, thanks to D.A.-you are more myself than I am.