Serena McLain's hand trembled as she reached out to ring her father's doorbell. The chimes echoed on and on inside his elegant two-story colonial house. Her heart sank. Just as she feared, there was no answer. It was four days since he seemingly vanished off the face of the earth, an eternity for a man who usually checked in every day. Especially when he was working on a hot project like the exposé he was writing on Gerald Grayson. When he failed to show up for her son's birthday party last night, her concern had rapidly turned to fear. He never would have missed Sammy's fifth birthday party.

A rivulet of sweat trickled down the back of her sunflower-print sundress as she stood, edgy, in the hot June sun. Tugging open her matching yellow tote bag with the pansies she'd embroidered on it, she rummaged through the cluttered bag for her dad's duplicate keys-the ones she used when he was off on his many research trips and book-signing junkets. Her sense of urgency escalated as she pawed though glue sticks, markers, and extra tissues. Also, the latest package Joey had sent her and the can of Mace she'd bought to ward him off.

Sunlight glinted off the small, blue healing crystal attached to her father's key ring. Thank God. Fishing them out, she approached the door, the keys tinkling in her trembling hand. She'd take a quick look around. If her dad wasn't here, she'd march right down to the police station.

Grasping the keys tighter to stop their clattering, she took a deep calming breath, letting the crystal absorb her fear and soothe her mind. Closing her eyes, she visualized her tropical sunset, her coiled muscles beginning to relax. Repeating her mantra, happily ever after, she felt in control once more.

Serenity reclaimed, at least temporarily, she reached for the doorknob. Her damp palm slipped, turning the knob, and the door creaked open. She gasped, staring at the swinging door in shock. It wasn't locked! Her dad wouldn't leave his home unsecured like this. She'd been right to worry.

"Dad, are you here?"

She peered through the small opening, taking in the utter stillness. Then she heard a sound, a faint click followed by a grating whir. Was someone there? Inching closer, she listened hard. A blast of cool air whooshed by her overheated face, and she realized it was the central air kicking in.

Telling herself to get a grip, she walked into the foyer of her old family home. Something crinkled under her feet. She looked down at the pile of mail that had been shoved through the mail slot. What in the world? Squatting down, she picked up the letters, noticing they'd been slit open. She placed them on the hall table, unnerved. Someone had rifled through her father's mail. He wouldn't leave mail lying haphazardly on the floor like this. The earliest postmark was from four days earlier.

Her stomach clenched. She had a missing father, an unlocked house, and tampered mail. It meant breaking and entering at the very least, maybe worse. Her gut instinct to leave Sammy home with a sitter had been right. She didn't know who or what she might encounter, but she had to search the house.

At least she felt confident that she could look after herself, after taking that self-defense course at the gym last week. Assertiveness had been the main crux of the rape prevention class, with a little karate thrown in for good measure. That, coupled with the yoga she'd been practicing for years, would see her through this crisis.

Firming her resolve, she headed straight for her father's den. If he was home, that was where he'd be-maybe so engrossed in work that he didn't hear her.

The scent of his cherry-wood tobacco still hung in the hallway's air, soothing her jangled nerves. She approached the cozy bookshelf-lined room, calling out tentatively, "Dad, are you there?" There was no reply. Turning the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks. Someone had torn the place apart. Her father's books were scattered, torn from the shelves. Papers spilled out of his open desk drawers. And his computer was gone. Good grief, he'd been vandalized and robbed!

Where was her father? Maybe he'd interrupted the burglars and been hurt in the process. No, she wouldn't let herself believe that. She had to think positively. There was no indication of a struggle, no blood anywhere. He might have chased them off and still be chasing them. The blinking red message light on his phone caught her attention.

Maybe he'd left a message. She rushed across the parquet floor to the phone and pushed the play button. She heard her own voice on a message she left this morning. "Dad, are you there? I'm really getting worried. Please get back to me." Beep. "Dad, this is Serena. I've been trying to reach you. I need to talk to you, so give me a call." She'd left that message three days ago, after he failed to show up for dinner at her house. She'd wanted to tell him about Joey resurfacing.

It seemed stupid to worry about her itinerant ex-husband now. But, one look at Joey's strung out face when he'd shown up on the last day of school, two weeks ago, had sent her running to that rape prevention class. The drug use that had separated them six years ago had only gotten worse, reducing the bright-eyed idealist she'd once loved into a bitter shell of a man. He'd pulled her stiff body into his arms, groping her, while demanding money. He'd read one of her father's books, knew he was making good money. It was only fair that she should share. Luckily, the principal noticed the altercation and had Joey ejected from the building.

Now he'd taken to sending her gifts, like the poem about the key to his heart that nestled in her bag. She was saving them up in an effort to get a restraining order.

Beep. "Sam, Frank again. Where in the hell are you? Regency is chomping at the bit to get your book. Call me back, pronto." She recognized the irritated voice of her father's literary agent, Frank Gorman. Beep. "Samuel, you old dog. It's Frank. I'll meet you, usual spot ten-thirty. You can buy this time. You need an excuse to spend some of that sweet advance you got for Grayson Malice." When had this been left? Four days ago. The day her father had vanished. Maybe Frank knew where her father was.

She glanced at her father's desk calendar. The date was circled, but there was no indication where he'd gone. She spotted the Rolodex on the floor and picked it up, flipping through it for The Frank Gorman Literary Agency. Fighting back a growing sense of desperation, she reached for the phone and punched out the number.

"Gorman Literary Agency."

"Hello, I'd like to..." she stammered.

"Slow down honey, I can hardly make out what you're saying."

Serena took a calming breath, willing herself to slow down and focus. "Sorry." She wove her finger into the telephone cord, twisting it, as she enunciated clearly, "I need to talk to Mr. Gorman, please."

"I'm sorry, he's rather busy at the moment. If you'd care to leave a message...?"

She frowned into the phone. This honey-voiced secretary was not about to stop her. "Ma'am, this is important. I know he'll want to speak to me. It's about my father, one of his clients, Samuel Carlson."

"Big Sam. Why didn't you say so in the first place?" The secretary chuckled. "Sorry for the brush off, sweetie. Writers can be a pesky crowd. You must be Serena. I've heard a lot about you and your little boy Sammy. Sam is proud as punch of the both of you. So, how's your father?"

Serena glanced at the ransacked office. Missing, hurt, worse? No! She wouldn't let herself go there. It would hurt too damned much. "I'm not sure how my dad is." Or where he is, she thought silently. "That's why I want to talk to Mr. Gorman."

"Hold on a second, sweetie. I'll put you right through."

Serena waited, anxiety churning in the pit of her stomach, making her uneasy. Frank Gorman was her best hope of tracking down her father. Hopefully, her father had checked his messages and made contact with him.

"Frank Gorman here. Where is that old reprobate? You can tell him for me, missy, I don't appreciate being stood up."

Her knees buckled as her worst-case scenario was voiced. Serena sagged down into the leather desk chair, her last glimmer of hope melting away. Her father had never called Frank back. "So, my father hasn't called you?"

"No, he hasn't," he said, grumbling. "I sat cooling my heels in that bar for two hours Monday, waiting for him to bring me his book."

"Oh God, no." With a sniff, she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. Then he'd been hurt, or...

"What's wrong?"

She brushed the tears away from her eyes. Falling apart wasn't an option. "Dad's disappeared. He's been missing for four days. And you're the last appointment in his date book."

"Damn, that son of a bitch must have him."

Abduction hadn't occurred to her, but it made sense. She knew the son of a bitch he was referring to. Gerald Grayson had been doing all he could to block her father's unauthorized biography. But kidnapping? Would he go that far? "You said that dad was bringing you his manuscript. That means Grayson's got it along with my dad. He's already won."

"Not necessarily. Your pop told me he'd taken out insurance. He's got a copy stashed away for safekeeping. If he doesn't check in weekly, it's to be sent to a trusted party. The book will be published despite Gerald Grayson's evil manipulations."

"Insurance?" Her dad really must have been concerned. She was glad that her dad's work would go on, but it was small comfort in the face of losing her father. But, if Gerald Grayson was holding him somewhere while he searched for the copy, it meant that her father was still alive. That was the hope she needed to cling to. Maybe the person her father sent the copies to could help. "Who's got it?"

"He didn't tell me who's holding it. He didn't want me to take the risk. As a matter of fact, he said Grayson was one of the most ruthless men he'd ever written about."

Why hadn't he told her all this? Maybe because she'd been preoccupied with the end of the school year, Joey's reappearance, and her classes at the gym. He hadn't let on to her other than his usual fatherly warning to be careful. "Why didn't he tell me any of this?"

"He probably didn't want you to become a target."

A tear trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away and a slight motion caught the corner of her eye. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Was someone there? Turning her head cautiously, she saw it was only the drapes fluttering. Letting out a sigh of relief, she told herself to stop acting like a scared rabbit. Whoever had done this was long gone.

"Hello. You still there, Serena?"

Frank's worried voice broke through her musings. "Sorry. Yes, I'm still here. I'm calling from my dad's place. It's been ransacked and his mail opened. I think they must have been searching for my father's copies. Which means he told them about it but hasn't revealed where it is. Why else would they go to all that trouble?"

Frank gasped, then yelled, "Good God, girl, get the blazes out of there! They might come back!"

They'd search her home next. Sammy was in danger. "My house. They could go to my house next. I've got to call my sitter and make sure she takes Sammy to her place."

"Do it, and then get the hell out. And remember, keep me informed."

She hung up and then punched in her home number. Hopefully, Mrs. Monroe would be nearby sipping her morning cup of tea.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Monroe, I don't have time to explain, but would you take Sammy to your place and keep him there until I return?"

"Of course, my dear. Is everything all right?"

"Not really. Dad's home has been broken into, and I'm worried the burglars might be headed to my place. I don't want you and Sammy there just in case. But please keep it light, I don't want to scare Sammy."

"Oh, goodness. We'll go right away. Don't fret, dear, I won't alarm Sammy."

"Thanks. I'll come to your house after I talk to the police. Wait for me there." Serena hung up, glancing at the growing shadows in the corner of the room. She felt vulnerable sitting alone in the burglarized house. Jumping up, she turned and headed for the door. She'd go directly to the police station. Surrounded by policemen, Grayson couldn't touch her.

Jumping into her Volvo, she cranked on the ignition, jamming her foot on the gas pedal. The engine sputtered and died. Muttering a curse, she took her foot off the accelerator. All she needed was a flooded engine. She could picture Gerald Grayson himself, leaping out of the juniper bushes to attack her. Taking a calming breath, she carefully started the car and drove off. Making fast time to the police station, she parked right in front and went in.

Scared but determined, she marched up to the front desk, approaching the man seated behind the counter. He was slowly filling in the blanks on a crossword puzzle. He didn't even bother to look up, damn it. Frowning down at the top of Sgt. Murphy's balding head, she cleared her throat to get his attention.

He filled in a word and looked up, fixing her with a disinterested frown while putting his pencil down. "Yeah?"

Her anxiety dissolved into exasperation. Didn't the man even want to do his job? Her toe tapped on the marble floor. "I need to file a missing persons report."

"We can't do that until the guy's been gone over forty eight hours, lady. Why don't you give it a few more days?" He looked back down at his crossword puzzle, picking up his pencil again.

Smacking her hand on the cool marble counter to regain his attention, she leaned forward, enunciating very clearly. "It's been way past two days. My father was kidnapped by Gerald Grayson."

His head popped up and he frowned at her.

Seeing his doubtful look, she became indignant. Just because Gerald Grayson had more money than God, it didn't make him above the law. "I'm serious." Hearing assorted gasps from the people within earshot, she passed a scathing look over the lot of them. They had no idea what she was dealing with. A policewoman stared at her, a janitor watched her guardedly, and a big older detective came tearing out of an office with 'Detective Sinclair' lettered on its door.

"What in the holy hell is going on out here, Murphy?" he complained.

The desk sergeant shook his head. "The lady wants to file a kidnapping complaint."

His tone of voice said he thought she was a nut. Her spine stiffened at the insult. "Also, burglary and tampering with the mail." Hopefully, the detective would actually want to do his job. "My father's been kidnapped by Gerald . . ."

"Let's take this inside, ma'am," Detective Sinclair cut in quickly. He frowned, the lines on his beefy face deepening. "Step into my office, and I'll help you."

That was more like it. She gave a told-you-so look to the desk sergeant. The policewoman went back to her filing, but the janitor kept staring at her with a frown on his face. The inquisitive look on his stubble-covered face was troubling. Why was he so interested in her affairs? When she returned his stare, he looked away and started buffing the floors once more. She followed the detective into his office.

He walked behind his desk. "Have a seat, ma'am."

She sat on one of the straight-backed chairs and waited for the detective to settle into the worn chair behind his desk. Finally, she'd get some help.

He leaned back, his chair squeaking, and clasped his hands together over his round middle. "Now, what's all this about your father being missing?"

"He's not just missing. He's been kidnapped by Gerald Grayson."

He raised a brow. "Kidnapped, you say. You got a ransom note?"

"No."

"Well then, you see it happen?"

She bit her lip, his gruff tone sinking in. The word 'no' hung on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't want to say it. He might take it as an excuse to dismiss her. The problem was she'd never been any good at lying. "No, I didn't see it happen. And, no, I don't have a ransom note. But that doesn't make it any less real."

"Then how do you know it happened at all?" he asked.

"Gerald Grayson doesn't want ransom, he wants my father silenced and the book he was writing stopped."

"Says who?"

Her father's life hung in the balance, and the detective was playing games with her. She wouldn't tolerate it one second more. Raising her chin a defiant notch, she glared at him. "My dad disappeared four days ago on his way to deliver the book to his literary agent, Frank Gorman. Grayson would do anything to prevent its publication."

Sinclair shook his head. "Ma'am, sounds like it's all speculation on your part. You can't go around accusing an important man like Mr. Grayson of kidnapping without proof. You could wind up getting in a lot of hot water, young lady." He fixed her with a repressive scowl. "Take my advice and wait a while. Your father will probably show up, sheepish for going out on a bender. He probably does this kind of thing all the time."

"He does not." Her father had never gone on a bender in his life. And there was the issue of the break-in. They couldn't sweep that under the rug. Either he didn't believe her, or he was scared of Gerald Grayson, probably a bit of both. "Do I have to go over your head to get some action?"

"Now, simmer down lady. Don't get hysterical on me. If you insist, I'll file a missing persons report." He pulled a form from his desk drawer and handed it to her. "If you want to fill this out at home..."

"I'll fill it out now." She pulled a pen out of her tote bag and completed the blasted form. Thrusting it back at him, she fumed when he only scanned it for a scant second and then pressed a buzzer.

"Jacoby, come in here, I've got some filing for you to do." He looked at Serena. "Happy now?"

"No." She listened to his disgruntled snort and her spine stiffened. "I expect more than a few inquiries. I demand an investigation. Now, are you going to take this seriously, or do I have to go over your head?"

He stilled, fixing her with an irritated stare. "Fine. When did all the alleged crimes take place?"

She hesitated, surprised by his rapid flip-flop. "I just discovered the burglary, his computer and disks were stolen, his mail opened, and he's been missing four days."

His glance was sharp as he asked, "Any idea why they'd just take the computer and disks?"

She hesitated. Telling him about the copy of her father's book in safekeeping was probably not in her father's best interests. Besides, her father had kept it a secret for a reason. She wouldn't betray his confidence. "No."

"Hmm," he said, watching her.

She almost squirmed, feeling like a bug under a microscope.

"Like I said, I'll send someone out later."

She wasn't going to be palmed off with a vague promise like that. "Not good enough. I've watched CSI enough to know that you need to send a forensics team to my father's house." Gauging his tight-lipped reaction to her outburst, she bluffed, "Look, Detective Sinclair, tampering with the mail is a federal crime. Do you want me to go to the feds?" Watching his hands tighten on the arms of his chair, she held her breath. He probably wanted to wring her neck.

Loosening his white-knuckled grip, he bit out, "I'll send a team to his house. But this is the end of it, lady. I don't want you bugging me anymore."

Choosing to ignore his gruff demand, she got to her feet. "I'll be at my father's house waiting for them. You've got the address." Feeling his sour gaze on her, she turned and headed for the door with as much decorum as she could muster.

"Miss McLain."

She forced herself to stop. No way would she let him think she was running. Turning to look back at him, she strove for a confident expression. "Yes?"

"Take my advice. Don't make any more wild accusations against Mr. Grayson. He's got friends that might take offense."

Was he threatening her? His bland expression left her in doubt and nervous. As much to reassure herself as to defy him, she said, "Detective Sinclair, you do your job and I'll do mine."

Rushing out of his office, she crashed headlong into someone. Muscular arms wrapped around her as she bounced off a hard body. She grabbed at his arms, feeling his muscles ripple under her palms as her world tilted. Her pelvis pressed against his, their legs enmeshed. Gazing up into a pair of intense chocolate brown eyes, she was ensnared for a moment, intrigued despite the predicament she was in. Then she felt his whole body seem to tighten against hers. Was he growing aroused? Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

He frowned, setting her back down on her heels and letting go of her waist. She uncurled her fingers from his arms, mortified. What must he think of her, clinging to him like that? The spell broken, she noticed the stubble and bandana. It was the grumpy janitor, the one that had scowled at her earlier. He was frowning again, a seemingly perpetual state for him. Struggling for something to say, she blurted out, "I hope I didn't hurt you."

He stared past her, his frown deepening. "Next time, watch your step, lady."

She took a startled step back. He could at least have the good manners to look at her. Stepping past him, she fled without a backwards glance.

FBI field agent Mark Riley took his eyes off Sinclair, who was grumbling at someone on the phone. He turned in time to see Ms. Serena McLain hurry away, her blond curls bouncing. The fluttery, flower-print dress she was wearing waving in the breeze as she fled. She was a complication he didn't need. He turned and ducked into his janitor's closet. He opened his laptop and hacked into Sinclair's files. Just as he'd suspected, the missing persons report hadn't been filed yet. Knowing Detective Sinclair, it probably never would be. Ms. McLain could wait until the cows came home for help and not get it. And if she made too much fuss, they had ways of silencing her.

The Agency had known Samuel Carlson was doing a story on Gerald Grayson and hadn't interfered because he'd kept Grayson occupied while they built a rock-solid case against him. The inter-jurisdictional team he was a part of had actually put their egos in check to work together.

But they hadn't known Samuel Carlson was missing, probably dead, Mark surmised. And Ms. Serena McLain, although she didn't know it yet, had just stepped into a hornet's nest. Her accusation would accelerate things. No doubt his boss, Agent-in-Charge Thom Whittaker, would salivate at the prospect of a quick wrap-up to this investigation. Forcing Ms. McLain's cooperation would fit in with his boss's penny-pinching style of leadership. He wouldn't mind wrapping up this case early, either. Out from under Whittaker's thumb, he'd have a chance to surreptitiously investigate the disaster that went down last year.

He was lucky to have spotted Ms. McLain. Who knew a plum like this would fall in his lap, literally? Her soft curves had felt good, too good, pressed tight against him. Her perfume, tantalizing. He put his hard-on down to the fact that he hadn't been laid in six months. She'd felt it, too. He hadn't missed the shocked look in her blue eyes. Adistraction like her, he didn't need on his climb back to the top of the agency.

Time would tell what Grayson's next move would be. In the meantime, Serena McLain would need protection. Her feisty exchange with Sinclair was troubling. It just might get her killed. He called his partner. "Eagle. Put a tail on Ms. Serena McLain. Her father's gone missing. She was just here, shooting her mouth off to Sinclair. When Sinclair tried to stonewall her, she threatened to go to the feds. You know they aren't going to take that lying down."

"Right."

"Her father's residence was searched, his computer and disks were stolen. They were probably looking for the book he was working on. Gerald Grayson wouldn't want that falling into the wrong hands. She's supposed to meet the cops at her father's home. Send out a forensic team, and make sure that tail sticks close."

• • •

Serena stood at her father's front door, watching the crime lab technicians drive away. They'd managed to lift a few smudged fingerprints, Captain Brown had told her. His professional manner erased the bad impression Detective Sinclair had given her of the local police. Even if Detective Sinclair was the world's worst cop, the crime lab would come through.

She shut and locked the door behind her, and headed for her car. It would feel too creepy to stay alone inside the burgled house. Glancing back at the growing dusky shadows in the recessed doorway, she shivered. Would she ever feel safe here again? She didn't have time to worry about it now. She had to get home and check on Sammy.

As she drove, she popped a CD of new age music in the player, hoping its mellow sounds would soothe her. It would be tricky explaining to her five-year-old where his beloved grandpa was. He was already asking questions about why his grandpa hadn't shown up at his birthday party. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tried to focus on the music.

Changing lanes twice, she noticed a van behind her doing the same thing. Was she being followed? She glanced at it through her rear-view mirror. A man was behind the wheel. He made eye contact for a moment, and then lagged back. Was he acting suspiciously? It would have seemed like a preposterous thought yesterday. But now the rules had changed. She couldn't bring trouble home with her. Speeding up, she took a left. The van kept going straight. She let out a sigh of relief and turned toward home.

She pulled into her parking slot next to her building at Paradise Park Town Homes and turned off the engine. Sitting there for a moment, looking out at the quiet parking lot, it suddenly occurred to her how alone she was. Now it was just she and Sammy against the world.

Nervous but determined, she got out of the car, half expecting Grayson to leap out from a parked car and grab her. Hurrying down the sidewalk to her two-story townhouse, she saw the modern building's angles and recessed entries with new eyes. It had never occurred to her before, but there were plenty of shadowy places for an assailant to hide.

Shivering, she tamped down her fear. This was home, a secure port in the storm her life had become. It'd taken her years teaching kindergarten at Holmes Elementary to save up the money to buy her cozy townhouse. She wouldn't let Grayson make her afraid of it. That would be letting the bastard win.

A knot of tension formed in her neck as she opened her front door. Stepping cautiously into the entryway, she was relieved to see that things looked normal.

The living room was still strewn with Sammy's toys, dump trucks, and action figures. Mrs. Monroe's full teacup sat on the end table. She walked through the dining room and into the kitchen, letting out a sigh of relief. Mrs. Monroe had cleared out in a hurry, but everything looked perfectly normal.

Rolling her shoulders to ease the remaining stress, she turned to go upstairs. Sammy's bedroom was just as he'd left it-the bed made, his Spiderman action figure in its place of honor on the dresser. She smiled, feeling inordinately better, and walked down the hall to her room. Standing in the open doorway, she saw that it was undisturbed. The double bed neatly made with the white lace duvet cover. Sunlight shone cheerily through the lace-draped windows, illuminating the three healing crystals on top of her dresser. She walked across the pearl gray carpet to her bed and sagged down on it. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she made a face. She looked shaken, her face unusually pale. This would never do. She didn't want to worry Sammy. She walked into her adjoining bathroom and applied some fresh blush.

She turned and headed toward the third bedroom, which she'd converted into an office. This was where it had all gone wrong at her father's house. Her nerves prickled in nervous anticipation and her footsteps faltered. The rest of the house was undisturbed. There was no reason to be afraid, but still she couldn't dismiss her fear.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, visualizing her tropical sunset. She relaxed a bit, silently repeating her mantra, happily ever after. Some day she and Sammy would go on their trip to the tropics and have a great time. She'd been saving up for years. She continued down the hall with purpose and pushed open the door.

She let out a sob as she surveyed the carnage. It was ten times worse than her father's had been. Her desk wasn't just open-it was smashed. Being made of cheaper material, it had been easy to destroy, she supposed. Piles of paper littered the floor, lesson planners and textbooks ripped and destroyed. And her laptop computer was gone.

Why had Grayson done this? Had he been looking for the hidden copy or was he simply trying to scare her off? It wouldn't work. This invasion only served to make her more determined to get to the bottom of things. Thank God she'd had the foresight to warn Sammy's sitter. She needed to get to Mrs. Monroe's to check on him.

Just then, she noticed the white message light on her phone blinking. Was it her father? She picked her way over the rubble to the phone and pushed the play button. "Keep your damned mouth shut and stop running to the cops, you stupid bitch. We got a hole deep enough to bury you, if you don't wise up."

A chill ran down her spine as she listened to the threat coming from a raspy male voice. She stood frozen for a second, then turned and fled, running the length of the hall and down the stairs. Grabbing her bag off the table, she rushed out the front door. Grayson knew she'd gone to the police. The authorities couldn't be trusted. She'd have to go it alone.

Hurrying to Mrs. Monroe's townhouse, she scanned the grounds looking for the culprit. Although, what she'd do if she caught him she didn't know. Even with her new self-defense skills and Mace, she didn't fancy her chances of making a citizen's arrest on some thug.

She rang the bell, flicking a wary glance over her shoulder. Hearing the latch click, she turned to see Mrs. Monroe opening the door. Serena let out a sigh of relief, stepping into sanctuary.

"Come on in, dearie." Mrs. Fern Monroe, a tall, white-haired lady dressed in a red pantsuit, stepped back a pace. She looked at Serena, concerned. "Is everything all right? You look white as a ghost."

Obviously, the blush she'd put on hadn't cut it, especially after the shock she'd just experienced in her trashed office. Serena shut the door behind her and sagged back against it. "I'm fine. How's Sammy?"

"He's just fine and dandy. See for yourself." She motioned toward the living room.

Serena glanced at Sammy. He was sitting on the living room floor, watching a video, eating a peanut butter sandwich, and feeding bits of it to Fern's dog, Mr. Bartholomew. The schnauzer sat patiently, waiting for tidbits as he gazed at her son in adoration. Serena smiled at the sight. Thank heavens she'd had the presence of mind to phone her sitter. She shuddered to think of them being in her home when it was invaded.

Mrs. Monroe stepped up beside her. "Sammy thinks coming to my place is a treat. 'Wizard' is what he called it."

"Thank you for reacting so quickly."

"You're not a girl to push the panic button for no need, so we took it on the lam. Come on in the kitchen. I've just put on the kettle for tea."

Following Mrs. Monroe into her cheery kitchen, she tried to decide what to tell her. She didn't want to frighten the neighbor lady. However, she did want her to be on her guard in case Gerald Grayson's thugs came back.

Serena took the teacups out of the glass-fronted cabinet and put them on the tea tray. She felt stronger by the moment, her equilibrium returning as the scent of Earl Gray wafted into the air. Carrying the tray over to the breakfast nook, she made up her mind. The truth was best.

Mrs. Monroe poured out the tea, sitting down. "All right, dearie, tell me all about it."

"My house was vandalized, and my laptop computer stolen."

Fern shook her head. "You were right to be concerned then. It must have happened after I left. I'm ever so sorry."

"Thanks. I'm just glad you two were out before they hit. Can I use your phone?"

"Of course, dear. Are you going to call the police?"

"No. I don't think they're to be trusted right now."

"I don't blame you a bit. Why, I called them two days ago when my flowerbed was rampaged and poor Mr. Bartholomew terrorized, and it didn't do me a bit of good. In fact, they were very rude. If you want my advice you should get a big watchdog. He'd keep the burglars away."

Serena nodded, vaguely recalling Fern's messed up pansy bed a few days back. At the time, she'd been too worried about her father's lack of contact to pay it much mind. Mr. Bartholomew had barked himself hoarse that night. Come to think of it, Serena had noticed scratches on the trim around one of her windows the next day, too. She hadn't thought much of it at the time. Could it have been Grayson's thugs trying to break in? Maybe the dog's barking had scared them off. "I'm sorry about your flower bed."

"Thank you for your concern. Now, what can I do to help with your situation? I have a friend who breeds Dobermans, if you'd like his number."

Serena smiled, picturing Sammy playing with a puppy. "Thanks, I might take you up on that later. I told dad's literary agent I'd keep him informed." Serena reached for the phone on the counter and dialed Frank Gorman's number. He'd offered to help. Maybe he could recommend a private eye.

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