CHAPTER THREE

      “I DON’T KNOW HOW the Boston P.D. does things,” Ross’s secretary Donna Holliday said in her precise tone, “but in Mystic Point we tend to start our workday at 8:00 a.m. Sharp.”

      Ross tucked his cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he climbed out of his car and shut the door. Donna, like the car, the beat-up metal desk in his office and the animosity from his entire department, had come with the police-chief position.

      He’d love nothing more than to give all of them back.

      “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he told Donna, deciding not to mention how he’d been working all night—which she damn well knew—because she’d probably point out how most of the department had been up all night and were already at work. “Twenty, tops.”

      “Better stick with fifteen. Between that body popping up and you busting a kiddie party, we’ve been inundated with calls and visitors. We’ve had everyone from conspiracy theorists who are certain the bones belong to Jimmy Hoffa, to parents calling for your badge for having their little darlings brought home in a police car. And if that’s not enough to light a fire under your rear—”

      “As always, I’m astounded by your professionalism,” he said dryly.

      “The mayor’s assistant called,” she continued, ignoring him—nothing new there, “to say His Honor will be gracing us with his presence at nine sharp.”

      “Fine. Fifteen minutes.”

      He ended the call, slid the phone into his pocket and jogged up the steps to the back door, the bushy, overgrown shrubs on either side of the stairs scratching his arms. Inside, he tossed his keys on the counter and headed straight to the refrigerator. Mustard, ketchup, a carton of eggs he didn’t remember buying, milk and leftover pizza from two nights ago. Or was it three?

      With a shrug, he pulled out the box, grabbed the slice inside and bit into it. And almost ripped his teeth out in the process. Definitely three nights ago.

      He took another bite as he hurried upstairs to his bedroom. Holding the pizza in his mouth, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it toward the open hamper in the corner of the room where it landed on the edge to dangle by a sleeve. He took out the last uniform shirt in his closet and shoved his arms in, leaving it hanging open while he finished his breakfast.

      He needed groceries. And to throw a couple of loads of laundry in the washing machine. The yard hadn’t been mowed in two weeks. He threw the pizza crust into the plastic garbage can next to his bed and buttoned his shirt. He’d put them all on his To-Do List, right after Identify Remains, Solve Mystery of Yet Unknown Person’s Death and Straighten Out Rebellious Niece.

      At least he could cross one item off this morning—though it was the last thing on the list he wanted to tackle.

      Tucking in his shirt, he went out into the hall. Jessica’s bedroom door, as usual, was closed, the whiteboard hanging off it sporting her flowing script in red: Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

      Ross squeezed the back of his neck. Guess a Keep Out sign would be too subtle.

      He knocked. “Jess?” Nothing. No sound of any kind from the room. He tapped his forehead against the door several times. He really didn’t have time for his niece’s games. Lifting his head, he used the side of his fist to pound against the wood. “Jess! Open the door.”

      Still nothing. Trying the lock, he raised his eyebrows when it turned easily. As with it usually being closed, the door was also often locked. He opened it wide enough to see inside. Sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds covering the two windows, illuminating a lump on the single bed.

      “Get up,” he said, flipping on the overhead light. Jess stirred then snuggled deeper into her pillow. Ross shoved the door open. It hit the wall with a resounding bang.

      Jessica jackknifed into a sitting position with a gasp. Breathing heavily she twisted from side to side as if to locate what had woken her. She shoved her tangled, dirty hair from her eyes and blinked rapidly.

      Ross leaned against the doorjamb. “Good morning, sunshine.”

      She hit the bed with both hands. “What is wrong with you? Were you raised by psychopaths or something?”

      “Is that any way to talk about your papa and Grammy?” And if his active, sixty-year-old mother ever heard him call her Grammy, she’d hit him upside the head with her tennis racket. “It’s time to get up.”

      “It’s not even nine!”

      “From now on, you’ll be up and out of bed each morning by eight,” he said, kicking clothes out of his way as he crossed the floor to one of the windows. He opened the blinds. “Which shouldn’t be a problem since your new bedtime is 9:00 p.m.”

      “You’re kidding,” she said flatly.

      “Not even a little.” He opened the second set of blinds and she winced, holding her hands up like some vampire trying to ward off the brightness.

      Going by how many times she’d puked last night, she probably had one hell of a hangover. She groaned and flopped back onto the bed, one arm covering her eyes, her face pale. Sweat dotted her upper lip, dampened the hair along her forehead. Sympathy stirred. If he was a good uncle, a more caring guardian, he wouldn’t want her to suffer. Would offer her pain meds to stop the pounding in her head. Ginger ale to soothe the dryness of her mouth and ease the churning in her stomach.

      A good uncle wouldn’t think she’d gotten exactly what she deserved for not only disobeying him and breaking the law, but following in her mother’s footsteps.

      He stood at the foot of her bed, his hands on the curved wooden footboard. “You have piss-poor decision-making skills, no sense of right and wrong and way too much unstructured free time.”

      She lowered the arm from her face. “Go. Away.”

      “And while I can’t do anything about the first two, I’m taking control of the third.” He checked his watch, saw he had less than ten minutes to get to the station. If he used his lights and siren, he could make it there in three. “Which is why today you will mow the grass, sweep and mop the kitchen floor and do the laundry. And since all that shouldn’t take long, you can also clean out the garage.”

      “Screw you,” she spat. “I’m not your servant.”

      “This isn’t about servitude. It’s about taking responsibility and doing your fair share around your home.”

      “This isn’t a home. It’s a prison!”

      Ross scratched the side of his neck. Sweet God but she was as dramatic and rebellious as her mother had been at that age. And he was as clueless now as he’d been then as an eighteen-year-old watching his kid sister spiral out of control.

      “Fine.” You couldn’t argue with certain segments of people. Stoners, sociopaths and teenagers. None of them listened to reason. “It’s a prison. And after today it’s going to be a clean prison with a neatly mowed yard.”

      “That’s why you took me in, isn’t it? So you could have someone to clean up after you.”

      His jaw tightened. He didn’t expect much from her. Obedience. Respect. Maybe a bit of gratitude for how he’d rearranged his entire life for her.

      He’d settle for one out of three, and at this point, he didn’t even care which one it was.

      “I took you in,” he pointed out, “because it was the right thing to do. And because you had nowhere else to go.”

      Her