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O n the drive home, I felt like I'd been dropped down into the rabbit hole. There was no way that a successful, powerful lawyer like Sarah Greenberg had really threatened me like a cheap goon. Maybe my paranoia was driving me nuts.

"Although, who wouldn't be paranoid considering the week I've had?" I muttered.

Emily twisted in her seat and folded her arms. "You think you're imagining things?"

I tried to shake off the self-doubt. "No, I don't, really. There are things going on underneath the surface. It was unfair of me to expect you to pick up on?—"

Emily cut me off. "The yacht is a Hatteras. It sleeps six in three staterooms. The master is aft with queen-size bed and private head and shower. The master stateroom also has a built-in TV and VCR. There are two guest staterooms. One is aft, with upper and lower bunks, the lower being oversize, plus it has a closet. The private head and shower are across the companionway. The second stateroom is forward with two bunks, closet, private head and shower, washer and dryer."

She stopped to suck in a breath. "As you saw, the interior also features eggshell stain-resistant Berber carpet throughout, with in-shore protection runners. The main salon has a full-size couch, two chairs, and a helm seat. It's running her six grand a month for the boat payment. Another five for Karl's salary. That doesn't include routine maintenance and upkeep, which is fairly steep, or salaries for the crew she needs whenever she goes more than an hour out from the marina. Don't even ask about how much it costs to fill that gas tank. Plus, things are not all that stable for her, financially, across the board."

"What—"

"I'm not done. She and Karl had a hot and heavy thing going, but she dumped him recently for some twenty-something boy toy. Captain Karl isn't happy about it; he was way more than casual about her." She shuddered. "Although I can't imagine why. That woman gives me the creeps. She looks like she'd stab you in the heart just as easily as she would shake your hand."

I stopped at a red light and turned to stare at her. "You got all that from a quick tour of the boat with Captain Steroid? Do you have a photographic memory or what?"

She laughed and gave me a very smug look. "Didn't think I had it in me, did you? Oh, and whatever you and she were talking about, I'd be very wary of trusting. She had massive tells for deceit, bluffing, and outright lying all over her."

"Now the question is whether she bluffed about the cases or about throwing me overboard to sing with the fishes."

"I think that's swim with the fishes."

"Whatever."

We dissected Sarah's actions and comments all the way back home, but other than a general WARNING, DANGER, DANGER feeling, we didn't know what she was up to. I couldn't find any motive for her wanting Charlie's case so badly that she would give up seventy-five percent of the fee. The usual motive – money – didn't work if I were getting the lion's share of it.

"That leaves me with her stated reason: self-protection. She might really be terrified that I'd screw up her cases with bad precedent. If she's sitting on millions of dollars' worth of cases, and she has money problems, that would make sense," I said. But my tingly sense was still jangling.

"What's precedent, and why is it so important?"

"Oh, sorry. I forget and slip into legal-speak sometimes. Precedent is the weight of the decisions on similar issues that have come before your case. Stare decisis is the first Latin term you learn on day one of law school. It means 'to stand by things decided' and is the basis for our entire justice system," I said, kind of surprised that stare decisis popped out of my mouth like that. I hadn't used the term since law school.

"So, for example, if your court decided that the defendant wasn't at fault, Sarah would be out of luck?"

"Not necessarily, because each individual case will have different medical factors. But if, for example, my court ruled a certain way on key evidentiary issues, the counsel in Sarah's cases would have a powerful argument that their own judge must rule the same way. If it's a bad ruling for my client, it would hurt Sarah's clients, too."

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. "The problem is that I can see her point. I'd be afraid some rookie would set bad precedent, too, if the tables were turned, and I was still at True, Everett. But I'd never go about it this way. This is just weird."

By the time we arrived at home and walked into Emily's house, I was tired of thinking about it. It was past nine, and we followed the sound of the TV back to the family room, where two sleeping children and a sleeping puppy were all piled on top of Rick on the couch. He held up a finger. "Shh. They only crashed about fifteen minutes ago."

Emily dropped a kiss on top of his head, and I waved hello. "How was it? Was it awful?" I whispered.

He chuckled softly. "No, no. It was huge fun. I think we might end up with a puppy sooner rather than later, if this is how it's going to be. They all kept each other occupied the whole time. I was worried about our little daredevil, but Joker was really careful with Daisy."

"Daisy?"

"Ah. Daisy is the puppy's new name, according to the kids. They were quite adamant that Razor Fang simply won't do."

I considered the puppy, who was sprawled out, upside down, half on Ricky's shoulder and half on Joker's leg. She opened one eye and blinked at me, then her tail wiggled. I scooped her up and looked at her tiny, wrinkled face. "Are you a Daisy?"

She sneezed in my face. "Euuww! If that's a yes, we're going to have to work on our communication skills." I tucked her under my left arm and wiped my face with my right sleeve.

"Daisy sounds great to me, guys. Thank you so much, both of you. Talk about the bestest neighbors of all time."

Emily picked little Joker up and Rick gently shifted Ricky to the side of the couch. "Hold on, December, and I'll help you carry Daisy's loot to your house," he said.

"Loot? What loot?"

"Oh, not much. Just a couple of toys. Oh, and a bone for chewing. Puppies chew. A lot." He grabbed a large plastic bag that had been on the floor near his legs and peered into it. "A new pink collar with rhinestones (Joker picked it), a leash with attached plastic fire hydrant with little plastic poopy bags – that was Ricky's contribution, food and water bowls, a blanket and a dog bed. Oh, and there are two 'how to raise a puppy' books, a magazine about pugs, and a crate in the kitchen."

He stopped to take a breath. "Crate training is very important, according to the books."

Emily came back from putting Elisabeth to bed and kissed Rick on the cheek. "That's my man. He's a book guy."

I blinked. "Oh, wow. I had no idea that dogs took so much stuff. Daisy now officially owns more than I do, at least until – or if – we ever find my furniture. Please tell me how much you spent, so I can pay you back for all that stuff."

He laughed and shook his head. "Oh, no way. I figure it's the barter system. We get you some supplies, and you're forced to pay us back in babysitting and dog loan hours for a year."

"Deal! Although I think I'm getting the better end of this deal . . ." I scooped up my snoring puppy, walked toward the kitchen, and picked up the dog crate.

"It looks kind of small," I said.

"It's supposed to be only big enough for her to stand up and turn around comfortably. That way, she can't go off in a corner and go potty," Rick said from the doorway. "Trust me, it's plenty big enough for her, even when she's full grown. Pugs only grow to be fourteen to eighteen pounds when they're adults."

I grinned. "You read that entire book, didn't you?"

"It was that or watch some movie about dancing fairy princesses for the seven thousandth time."

Shuddering, I nodded. "I can see your point."

The three of us carried Daisy and all of her new possessions over to my house, and I thanked my fabulous neighbors a dozen times before they escaped to their snore-free home. I put Daisy the amazingly loud pug in her crate, on her blanket, and went to wash the day and my makeup off of my face. I'd barely taken a step before I heard a peculiar, high-pitched whining sound.

I froze, scanning the room for any sign of an intruder. The house seemed empty, but the noise escalated in volume. It was coming from behind me.

I whipped around, ready to surprise my attacker, and pinpointed the direction of the hideous noise. The crate. Or, to be specific, the tiny fur ball inside of the crate. Daisy was standing at the bars, whining pitifully.

"No, the book says you have to sleep in your crate, I think," I said firmly.

She whined again.

I shook my head. "No, Daisy. Go to sleep."

She howled.

I let her out.

Really, what do those book people know, anyway?

T he alarm clock sounded, but I ignored it. Instead, I smiled and burrowed deeper in the covers as Jake nibbled on my ear.

Then he sneezed on my neck.

My eyes flew open. Dream-Jake evaporated, and a small, furry face grinned at me from the top of my pillow. "Euww! Definitely no dog butt on my pillow. Move over, you annoying hound." I used my firmest voice which, since Daisy doesn't understand Human, apparently translated into Dog as climb on my neck and lick my face.

So she did.

Luckily for puppies, they're irresistibly cute. Otherwise, the incessant snoring and the pillow thing might lead to unfortunate results. "Do you have to go outside and pee on something, Daisy? That's right, you're Daisy."

She seemed to be getting used to her name, because she wiggled and wagged even more when I said it. I put her on the floor before all that wiggling led to peeing on my bed, and then I pulled on a pair of shorts to go with the t-shirt I'd slept in and headed for the back door.

At the last minute, I remembered the leash and collar, since the backyard wasn't fenced. "Add a fence to the list of urgent things to do the second I have any money," I mumbled, as I fastened the ridiculous jeweled collar around her neck. Daisy tilted her head, as if to ask why my morning breath was even worse than hers. I scratched her silky ears for a moment, then led her outside.

Ten minutes later, she was still standing two inches from my right leg and obstinately refusing to do her doggy thing. "Look, you. I know you have to pee. You're a puppy. You drank all that water, you slept all night and snored like a freight train – and thank you very much, by the way, for the bags under my eyes – and now you have to pee. So, do it already."

Emily's back door swung open, and Rick ambled out, already dressed for work. "Hey, December. Hey, Daisy," he called.

Daisy, a fickle creature, nearly choked herself, lunging on the end of the leash to get to him. "Whoa, wait up before you hurt yourself," I told Daisy, but I started over to talk to Rick. He'd read the doggy owner manual, after all.

Rick met us halfway, and bent down to pet Daisy, who threw herself in his lap. "She's probably trying to get away from me," I said. "I make her constipated, apparently."

He laughed. "Walk around with her to get her motor started, I think."

We both looked down. Sure enough, Daisy was squatting perilously near my left foot, finally peeing. Then she walked around me twice, until I was tangled in the leash, and contorted her body into a bizarre hunching shape.

"What the heck is she doing? Is she sick? She looks like she's in pain!" I said, freaking out. If I killed the new puppy on the first day, Max would never trust me again. Plus, okay, I had to admit that she was kind of growing on me.

Except, this new thing was . . . "Oh, that's disgusting!" She was pushing a huge trail of poop out of her bottom, but it was oddly connected and wouldn't fall down. "What IS that?" I asked Rick, trying not to gag.

He bent over and looked. "It looks like she swallowed a hair," he said calmly, then straightened back up and looked at me. "Haven't you ever had a dog, December?"

I bit my lip. "Of course. Well, only actually for one day, because my dad found out and had a fit. Then we had to give it back. I've never stood around before and watched one poop, that's for sure."

I snuck a glance down again. Everything seemed like it . . . came out . . . fine. "Now what?"

Rick was trying not to roll his eyes. I could tell. "Now you pick it up so it's not lying in the yard attracting flies or the shoes of little children."

"I PICK IT UP?"

"Use your quiet voice, December," he said, laughing. "I'm right here. Remember that fire hydrant thing? See it on the leash? You unroll a plastic bag and turn it inside out with your hand and do this." He showed a "pick up the poop with your bare hand only minimally covered with a thin plastic bag," trick, and then he pulled his hand out and tied the bag shut and held it out to me.

I blinked. "Can you hire people to do this? I'm practically broke, but I'm sure I can give up eating or something to afford a designated poop-picker-upper." He shook his head, still holding the bag o'poop out to me, and I had no choice but to take it.

As I walked back to my house, leash in one hand and poop – held as far away from me as possible — in the other, I wondered which part of the snoring/eating/pooping routine made dogs man's best friend?

Oh, wait. Man's best friend. If dogs were women's best friend, they'd be more into shoe shopping.