"Yeah? What?"

I pegged him as the kind who hit the bars every weekend, who talked too loudly (mostly about himself) and only worked hard enough not to get fired.

I immediately felt bad for his wife.

"We'd like to speak to you and your wife," I said, pasting on a bright smile. "About Tristan Rourke and Meaghan Ar-" I caught myself. He might not know her adopted name. "Chaney."

"Who're you?"

Sean handed him an SD Investigations card. "We're looking for Rourke."

With a jerk of his head, Spero motioned for us to come in. He didn't hold the door. In the tiny kitchen, he opened the fridge. "Only one beer left." A top popped, fizzed. "You two want some water?"

I bit back a smile at his attempt to be a good host. "No thanks."

I could tell by the set of Sean's jaw that he didn't like Spero at first glance.

"Why are you looking for that punk Rourke?" Spero shuffled into the living room, plopped down on a slipcovered armchair, set his beer can on his belly. "What kind of house doesn't have a recliner? This ain't my place, if you can't tell. It's my old lady's sister's place.

"We've been here a couple months. It's not permanent. Just till we find a place of our own. Damn economy. Meaghan tell you we were here?"

Delicate pink paint covered the walls, casting a girlish glow over the room decorated with antique furniture-a gorgeous Georgian side table, a pair of mahogany armchairs. Not pieces a man like Spero would ever appreciate.

"License bureau." Sean sat on a settee, taking up a little more than half of it. "Mary Ellen listed a change of address."

Spero's face screwed up as he processed the information. He scratched his stomach. White-tinted stubble covered his jowly chin. He reminded me a bit too much of Dennis Farina's mug shot.

I really needed to stop reading the gossip mags at the Shaw's checkout. "Is Mary Ellen around?"

"Nah. Working late all this week, overtime. We need the money."

"Do you see Meaghan a lot?" Sean asked, redirecting the conversation.

"Me? Nah. Mary Ellen still talks to the girl, time to time. She don't think I know, but I let it slide."

"Slide?" Sean asked.

"Those kids were all messed up," Spero said, tapping his head to indicate mental problems. "We don't need them interfering with our lives. Did she listen? No. It's why women shouldn't make no decisions. I had my choice, those kids never would've left the hellholes they crawled out of."

Sean tensed, coiled, as if he were about to spring. I set my hand on his leg and could practically feel the anger coming off him in heated waves. What was with him lately?

"Whiny bunch of bloodsuckers, kids are. Only good thing about those kids Mare brought in?"

"What?" Sean asked through clenched teeth.

"The dough. Made some good money back then. Could use some now."

"Why aren't you still fostering?" I asked, probing.

His eyes went wide. " 'Cause I like breathing, thank you very much. I put my foot down after Rourke tried to do me in. Happiest goddamned day of my life." I could picture him on the bar stool, telling this same story, guffawing with his buddies.

I couldn't help myself. "The day he tried to strangle you?"

He tipped his head to the side, sized me up. "No, Goldilocks. The day I kicked all those kids out."

"And Mary Ellen?" Sean asked.

"She got over it."

Obviously not if she still kept in touch with Meaghan. "Do you know if Mary Ellen also keeps in touch with Rourke?"

Anger weaved into his eyes. "If she knows what's good for her, she best not be talking to Rourke."

I wanted to ask, "Or else what?" but held my tongue. I was afraid of the answer.

I nudged Sean. We both stood to go. It was Mary Ellen we needed to talk to if we wanted to know what had happened eight years ago.

Anthony Spero was nothing but a dead end.

11.

I watched my footing as I came down the front steps, careful of icy patches. "Do you want to swing by the library on the way home?"

Home.

Such a simple little word that held so much meaning.

It wasn't as though Sean didn't spend all his free time there. He had space in the closet, a toothbrush next to mine, two bureau drawers. He knew to run the hot water for a few minutes before getting into the shower in the morning to kick-start the water heater. He knew how to operate the stackable washer and dryer and that the oven temperature ran hotter than what the knob indicated.

My home was his home.

Why not make it official?

Right. The curse.

The damn curse.

I hated that thing.

Still angry, he said, "It's on the way."

I faced him. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You. The anger."

"The guy was a jerk, Lucy."

"It's not just him. You've been off ever since we took this case."

"It's getting late. We should go."

In the muted glow of the streetlights, I could see the pain etched in his eyes. I wanted to know where it came from and how to get rid of it. But now wasn't the time or place to push him. My heart aching, I spun and lost my footing. Sean grabbed my elbow. Warmth flowed from his fingers through my coat, down my forearms, and tingled in the tips of my fingers.

"Whoa," he said.

"Whoa" was right. "Look!" I gasped, pointing at the car. Both doors were wide open. Thoreau was nowhere in sight.

We stood frozen for the briefest of seconds as we took it all in. The scene, the repercussions.

Sean let go of me and rushed forward. He stuck his head in the car and pulled it out a second later. "He's gone." Pained, he said, "I locked it, didn't I? I remember locking it."

I nodded. I recalled hearing the beeps. "What else did they take?"

"Nothing. Nothing else is missing that I can tell." He went to the trunk, opened it. Pulling out two flashlights, he handed one to me.

Thankfully, I'd brought my tote bag in with me.

I heard him mumble, "Son of a bitch," under his breath before he said, "Let's split up. Look for prints in the snow, in case he's running loose and not stolen."

My heart sank to my toes. Stolen. Thoreau was a purebred Yorkshire terrier. He'd get good money on the black market.

73 minus 5 is 69. Shit. 68.

So much for math calming me down.

I started off down the block, calling Thoreau's name. Street lamps offered little extra light as the beams from the flashlight swept back and forth across front lawns, searching for any sign Thoreau had been here. There was no sign of him-or of paw prints, either.

Twenty minutes later, I was still looking. I walked up and down four streets before heading back to Sean's Mustang. I fought a wave of nausea as I looked inside the car. Thoreau's leash was gone. He hadn't been hooked to it when we left him in the car-someone had come along, broken in, and stolen Thoreau.

Deflated, I leaned against the door. Tears welled in my eyes. The little dog had become a part of my family. I couldn't believe he was just gone. And that I couldn't use my abilities to find him.

The tears overflowed.

I quickly swiped them away when I spotted Sean jogging down the street, slipping and sliding on the black ice.

"Any luck?" he asked as he neared.

I shook my head, unable to stop more tears.

He pulled me into his arms, held me close. Kissing my temple, he said, "We'll find him."

"His leash is gone, too. Someone had to have taken him."

Sean pulled a hand through his hair, raising dark tufts. A smile spread across his face, stretching until both dimples popped. Using the pad of his thumb, he whisked away my tears.

I couldn't think of one thing that was amusing. "Why are you smiling?"

"You can find him."

Sean knew how my abilities worked-I could only get readings from inanimate objects. Nothing living, breathing. Confused, I said, "No, I can't."

His hands curved around my shoulders. "The leash, Ms. Valentine."

The leash! I could get a reading from Sean since he technically owned the leash.

My heart was suddenly pounding. I'd never held Sean's hand for more than a few seconds. And then I only saw visions of us. Could I even do a normal reading with him?

"Is it possible?" he asked, obviously thinking along the same lines.

I'd broken out in a cold sweat. I unbuttoned my coat, unwound my scarf. "I don't know, but we have nothing left to lose at this point."

"Are you okay? You've gone pale. We don't have to do this," he said. "I'll contact the police, we can put up flyers-"

I put my finger on his lips, quieting him. "Stop. We have to do this. It's Thoreau. Grendel would never forgive me." My cat was in love with Sean's dog. There would be hell to pay if we didn't bring Thoreau home.

Home. There was that damn word again.

"Never mind me. It's all about the cat."

"Sorry. Priorities."

Smiling, he held out his hand, palm up. I took a deep breath and said, "Think about that leash, okay? And try just to think about the leash. Don't let any other thoughts creep in."

"Like what? You and me, later tonight in front of the fire?"

I hit him in the arm. "Yeah. Like that."

Somberly he said, "I'll try my best, but now the image is kind of stuck there."

I closed my eyes. I tried to clear my thoughts. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." My arm quivered as my hand hovered over his. Slowly, I lowered it, skin against skin.

The air was sucked from my lungs. Images came slowly, lazily, as they always did when our hands touched.

Pictures of Thoreau came first, mixing with images of Sean and me at my cottage. The two scenes slammed into each other, breaking apart into pieces left for me to sort through. A black car. Me in my robe. A street sign. Sean lying in the snow. Thoreau bouncing. Me bent over Sean's lifeless body. Blue eyes watching intently. Heartbreak.