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S ince I couldn't concentrate, I didn't stay long at the office. We all packed up and left together at around five. Then I went home and climbed into bed and stayed there the rest of the night, only waking up long enough to drink a glass of milk and take a couple of Tylenol.

Maybe it was the shock, or maybe it was the sheer exhaustion, but I didn't dream at all.

In the morning, I woke up before the alarm went off and stared at the clock, wondering what had happened to me. Stalkers, humiliation in court, and dead bodies. I thought that leaving my boring life, boring job, and boring husband in Ohio had been the worst mistake of my life.

I showered and got ready for work in a weird funk, unable to shake the sadness and feeling of loss that swamped me. I had to work on Charlie's case today and file for a restraining order in Mrs. Zivkovich's case, and work on any number of details in my pro bono cases. I didn't have time to feel sorry for myself, or homesick, or whatever I was feeling.

One mental pep talk and one stale English muffin later, I was out the door, only to stop dead and stare in surprise. The BMW was gone, and my ugly Honda was back in my driveway. Except it wasn't as ugly.

It was . . . pink.

Hot pink.

Emily stepped outside and waved hello, then started across her lawn toward me. I met her halfway. "Let me guess – you have my keys again?"

She laughed. "Yes, I saw that very nice Jake Brody when I went for my morning jog. Here are your keys, and he said to tell you the cameras are installed, whatever that means."

"Did he explain why my car looks like a giant bottle of Pepto-Bismol?"

We both looked at the car. "I think it looks cute," she said. "Plus, you'll never, ever have to worry about confusing it with somebody else's car at the mall. That happens to me all the time with the minivan."

I blinked. "But . . . it's pink. PINK! I'm a trial lawyer. I can't drive a pink car. I'll be laughed out of court."

I remembered the fiasco of the day before. "Again.

Emily laughed again. "I'm sure all the other lawyers will be jealous. Anyway, I tried to call you but your cell phone said messages over the limit or something. Did you turn it off?"

"Well, kind of. It was a long day. What's up?"

"Oh, we just wanted to see if you felt like going to a picnic with us this weekend. No rush to decide; just let me know sometime by Saturday." A sudden shriek pierced the air from her house, and she rolled her eyes. "Guess I'd better go. That was the 'Joker is ready to hit Ricky in the head with something' shriek. Have fun in your cool car."

She walked back toward her house. Only Emily would think a hot pink car was cool. Then again, she was a poker queen, so she was kind of trendy . . .

Shrugging, I headed for my neon car, chanting my new mantra: "Minor detail. Minor detail. Minor detail."

By the time I made coffee and turned on my computer, Mr. Ellison showed up at the office and came thundering down the hall to my office, yelling my name. "December! December, are you here yet?"

"I'm in here," I said.

"I got you a present to cheer you up," he said, heaving a worn duffel bag up on my desk. Today he wore a pair of purple pants with an orange shirt in his continuing tribute to the colorblind everywhere.

I looked down at the bag. "Another toaster?"

He snorted. "Of course not. Although, doesn't toast taste better from that old toaster? There's something about it that makes toast taste special."

"Probably the rust," I muttered, then started thinking about rust and Mars and blood and had to suck in a deep breath. "So, what's in the bag?" I asked, trying to distract myself from visuals of dead men.

Mr. Ellison started to talk, but then the bag moved.

And it barked.

"What the heck?" I unsnapped the top and looked inside. The tiniest ball of fur and wrinkles I'd ever seen peered up at me.

"What is it?" I asked Mr. Ellison.

He rolled his eyes. "You lawyers aren't as smart as you think you are if you can't recognize a dog."

"I recognize a dog, but why did you put a dog in a bag? No, better yet, why did you put a dog in a bag on my desk?"

We both looked down at the dog in the bag. It was wiggling all over and squirming. Then it climbed out of the bag, and I pulled the side of the bag up higher.

"Do something!" I said.

"She wants you to hold her," he said.

"I don't know how to hold a dog. And that's not really a dog, is it? Isn't it just a puppy? I don't know what to do with a puppy. I don't have time for a puppy!"

Meanwhile, the puppy, who evidently didn't understand Human, had figured a way out of the bag and was climbing across my desk right toward me. I put my hands out to stop it, but it climbed right over my arm and launched itself in the air toward me, knocking my empty coffee cup over with its hind leg.

"Mr. Ellison, this is very . . . um, sweet of you, but I really can't take care of a puppy. You'll have to take it back," I said, trying to hold eight or ten pounds of squirming puppy away from my face and stop my heart from melting into a big, gooshy puddle.

Max came in just then. "Hey, guys, I – aw! When did you get a pug, D? What a cutie baby lovey dovey!" She rushed over and plucked the puppy out of my arms and held it up. "Oh, look at the precious baby girl."

"It's a girl? How can you tell?"

She laughed. "The usual way. A lack of any boy equipment."

I felt my face heating. "That's kind of private. I wasn't exactly staring at its – at her equipment. And I can't keep a puppy, no matter how cute she is."

Or how much I want to keep her.

Mr. Ellison shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned at me. "You need somebody. All alone, no husband, all this bad stuff happening to you. A puppy will fix you right up. Anyway, I can't take her back. The owner had to move into the nursing home, and she ain't likely to come out, with a double broken hip."

I shook my head again. "I'm sorry, but then I guess you'll have to take her. I'm at work all day. It wouldn't be fair to the dog. Or you can take her, Max."

Max gently placed the puppy back in my lap and smiled. "I think Mr. Ellison's right. You need a puppy. Look, she likes you."

I looked down at the puppy, and watched as she turned around on my lap three times, shedding a couple of inches of dog hair, and then curled up and immediately went to sleep. Something cold and clenched deep in my stomach warmed up and let go, which was bad enough, but then I felt it.

That little twinge under my left rib cage.

I may have mentioned how much I hate that twinge. It always means I'm getting ready to do something stupid.

I sighed and thought for a moment, hardly even realizing I was petting the puppy. Then I put on my serious lawyer face and looked at each of my scheming employees. "Two conditions. First, she's a company dog. She comes to work with us during the day. We'll set her up with a bed and toys in the file room with Mr. Ellison so she has company and stays out of sight when we have clients in. Second, we all agree to joint custody. We take turns taking her home at night. Otherwise, she goes to the pound."

I held my breath, knowing that there was absolutely no way I could take the little fur ball to the pound, but hoping they wouldn't call my bluff.

Max caved first. "Absolutely! Little Puggsley will be a sweetie. And I bet she'll even be helpful on pro bono days. She can play with the kids while you talk to their parents."

Mr. Ellison shrugged. "Sure. I take her for a walk, I'm gonna score big time. Dogs are babe magnets."

Max and I both shuddered. "Only if you promise no details," I said. "Now what's her name?"

"She's only about four months old, and doesn't really answer to any one thing. She's been called about a dozen different baby talk names," he said.

"Well, she needs a name. What about Puggsley?" said Max.

"Euwww. Pugsley for a pug? No, that's too ordinary. What about Brennan, after Supreme Court Justice Brennan?" I asked. "She even looks like him."

Max and Mr. Ellison both booed. "None of your fancy-pants name, December," he said. "If I'm gonna have part custody, she needs a manly name."

I looked down at the tiny ball of fur in my lap. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"I've got the perfect name," he said. "Razor Fang!"

Razor Fang picked that exact moment to stand up, yawn, and pee in my lap.

A fter Max and Mr. Ellison took our still-unnamed puppy off for the pet store to buy supplies, and I finished rinsing my skirt out, I sat down just as my phone rang. "December Vaughn."

"It's Sarah Greenberg. I wanted to . . . apologize for the way our first conversation went and make a kind of peace offering," she said, sounding like she was swallowing broken glass.

I'm guessing apologies don't come all that easily to her.

"That's very nice of you. I wasn't all that happy about the way we started off, either. I was hoping we could cooperate on these cases," I said, willing to meet her halfway.

"Great! I have a little boat out at the Orange Grove marina. Why don't you meet me out there at seven and we'll have drinks and get to know each other a bit?" I could hear the relief in her voice, which made me wonder why it was so important to her I'd agreed.

"I'm not that sure of my evening plans. How about lunch, instead?" I didn't have any plans for the evening, but I didn't want Sarah Greenberg to see the Pink Mobile, either.

"No, lunch won't work. I have a memorial service for one of our associates today. Tragic, really. He committed suicide. I guess the law was too much for him. So, drinks at seven? See you then."

"Okay, we?—"

Click.

She didn't exactly sound all broken up about her colleague's death. I did a mental shrug and wrote a note on my calendar. I was curious enough about Sarah and what exactly was going on with her, Addison Langley, and the insulin cases to get out there at seven. What I needed was a way to read her devious little mind, and . . .

Emily . I needed a psychic, and one lived next door to me.

Before I could pick up the phone to call her, it rang again. When I answered, I felt a prickle on my neck. I'd inherited the prickle from Aunt Celia, who claimed it meant trouble was on the way. The prickle was usually right.

"This is Matt Falcon."

Hmmm.

"Hello, Matt. How are you? What can I do for you today?" I used my calm and collected voice, hoping that through some bizarre fluke of physics or universal time warp, he hadn't heard about my idiotic performance in court yesterday.

"I'm fine. Mostly, I was wondering if I could help you. I heard about yesterday."

So much for calm and collected. "So did the rest of the Orange Grove bar, I'm assuming. Look, I don't know where that stuff on the Founding Fathers came from. I took some cold medicine, and I think it affected my brain. That's it. It was the cold medicine! I?—"

"December? I'm talking about the murder at MOSH. Are you all right?"

"Oh. That. Isn't that outside of your jurisdiction?"

"Yes, more's the pity. We never get any good murders in Orange Grove," he said, voice filled with regret.

I held the phone out and stared at it, mouth open, then put it back to my ear. "You're sad that people aren't viciously murdered in Orange Grove. Is that what you said to me?" My voice sounded a little shrieky, even to myself.

"No, no, that's not what I meant at all, of course. It's . . . I'm thrilled that our residents aren't being murdered. It's just that working a case like that – well, you used to play in the big leagues. You must know what I mean."

Unfortunately, I knew what he meant. Working on cases where a couple of hundred dollars were at stake, like some of my pro bono cases, didn't have the same thrill as going into battle when millions of dollars rode on the outcome.

I didn't much like what that said about either of us, but I understood it. It would be like an NFL player training for years, but never allowed to play in anything but off-season games. Or what Dad had told me about why he enjoyed going off to sea and leaving us for months at a time. "You don't train for the big leagues and want to sit on the bench, pumpkin."

For a prosecutor, murder was the big leagues.

For me, it was something I never, ever wanted to face again.

"Are you there?" His voice cut into my mental wandering, and I sighed and hoped I'd snap out of my haze some day.

"I'm here, Matt. Big leagues, blah, blah. What's up?"

"I'm sorry to be so blunt, but if you're involved in a criminal matter, I can help you. If you need somebody to talk to about your contacts in the drug business, I know people at the DEA. Also, we have special programs in Florida for impaired attorneys."

It took me a beat, but I got it. "WHAT?? You think I'm – you think I had something to do with that man getting killed? Hey, buddy, I'm the innocent victim here. I didn't even know him. Well, I may have talked with him on the phone, but that was for, like, thirty seconds."

"Well—"

I cut him off. "Well, nothing . I. Do. Not. Do. Drugs. I never have done drugs. I'm the most boring, law-abiding person you know. I have to be desperate even to take a Tylenol. I don't have drug associates or drug contacts. I don't even think I have prescription drug benefits on my health insurance!"

There was a small silence. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm only offering to help, here. If you change your mind, call me. Oh – and would you like to have lunch with me this week?"

I stared at the phone again. "You think I'm a drug user with contacts who probably had something to do with a murder, and yet you want to take me to lunch?"

He laughed. "Live on the edge, that's my motto."

"Date sane men, that's my motto. No, thank you."

"If you change your mind . . ."

"I know. I have your number. Good bye, Mr. Falcon." This time, I hung up first.

The bell Max had installed on the front door jingled, and I heard Max and Mr. Ellison chatting. I stood up to go investigate our new small and furry colleague's purchases, but my phone rang again. As much as I wanted to ignore it, I picked it up.

"December—"

"This is Croc," a low and gravelly voice said. "I got your letter. You'd better stay out of my business, bitch, or I'll make life real bad for you."

"You're a little late for that," I said, rolling my eyes. I grabbed a pad of paper to jot down the time and essence of the call for the restraining order and the police.

"What? Look, I'm not messing with you. Stay out of me and that old bag's business. Or else."

The word choice struck me. "Or else? Is that you? Did you buy some Claritin after all? The allergies seem to be clearing up."

"What the hell are you talking about? Are you crazy? Shut up and mind your own business. That's all I've got to say."

"Wonderful! A concise criminal. My favorite kind. Usually you're all so long-winded," I said, trying to keep him talking so I could decide whether it was the same voice as my sinus stalker.

He wasn't going for it, though. "This is gonna be your only warning."