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shower, slap something between a couple slices of bread, pop a brew, and zone awhile in front of the tube.
    He’d’ve been fine with that.
    But he had to admit this was better.
    Not just the food—though, Jesus, Mrs. Grady could cook— but the place, the whole ball of wax. Pretty women, men he liked, the amazing Mrs. Grady.
    And, particularly, the always intriguing Parker Brown.
    She had a face for candlelight, he supposed. Elegant but not cold, unless she wanted it to be. Sexy, but subtle, like a hint of lace under a starched shirt.
    Then there was that voice—low register, a wisp of smoke, but changeable as the weather from brisk to prim from warm to ice. She got things done with those tones. Knew, he decided, just how to use them.
    She’d had to relate the full story of her near miss, and used the casual notes with hints of temper. If he hadn’t seen her himself directly after the incident, he might have bought her pretense that she’d never been in any real danger, and was only annoyed with her own overreaction and the other driver’s carelessness.
    Even with the act, the others smothered her with concern, peppered her with more questions, slung outrage at the other driver. And dumped gratitude on him until he felt buried in it.
    He figured he and Parker hit about the same level of relief when the topic shifted.
    He liked listening to them, all of them. Group—or he supposed more like family—dinner ran long, ran loud, and involved a whole hell of a lot of cross talk.That was fine with Mal. It meant he didn’t have to say much himself, and to his way of thinking you learned more about people when you let them take the wheel.
    “What are you going to do with your pool table?” Jack asked Del.
    “I haven’t decided.”
    It stirred Malcolm enough to ask. “What’s wrong with the pool table?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Del’s selling his house and moving in here,” Carter told Mal.
    “Selling it? When did that happen?”
    “A very recent development.” Del arched his eyebrows at Mal as he buttered one of Mrs. Grady’s fancy crescent rolls.“You want to buy it?”
    “What the hell would I do with it? It’s big enough for a family of ten and their grandparents from Iowa.” He considered as he cut another bite of ham. “Any way to just buy the game room?”
    “Afraid not. But I’ve got a couple ideas on all that.”
    “Let me know when you’re ready to sell the pinball machines.”
    “Where are you going to put them?” Jack demanded. “You’ve barely got room to turn around in that place over your mother’s garage.”
    “For the classics I’ll toss out my bed and sleep on the floor.”
    “Boys and their toys.” Laurel rolled her eyes toward Del. “You can’t put yours in our bedroom. Line in the sand, Delaney. Indelible line.”
    “I had a different location in mind.” Del glanced at Parker. “We’ll talk about it.”
    “All right. I thought you might want to convert one of the attics,” Parker began, “but I took a look myself, and I don’t know that they’d safely hold all that weight. At least not if you wanted to keep the slate pool table.”
    “I wasn’t thinking up. I was thinking down.”
    “Down?” Parker repeated. “Where . . . Oh God, Del, not one of the basements.”
    “How many attics and basements are in this place?” Mal whispered to Emma.
    “Three attics, two—no, three basements if you count the scary boiler room where the demons who eat the flesh of young girls live.”
    “Cool.”
    “Sure, if you’re a young boy like Del was.” Emma narrowed her dark eyes as she glared across the table. “But if you’re a young girl playing Treasure Hunt, you could be scarred for life by a certain mean boy with a flashlight with a red bulb, a shambling walk, and a low, maniacal laugh.”
    She picked up her wine, shuddered a little. “I still can’t go down there.”
    He tuned back in while Parker and Del batted basements around, Laurel sat smiling into her wine,