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hallway light slanted in, the way her baby liked it.
    She needed to get her work started. There was a good two hours of it waiting for her. But instead of angling toward her home office, Phoebe veered off toward her mother’s sitting room.
    Essie was there, as she was most evenings, crocheting.
    “Got an order for a christening gown,” Essie said, looking up with a smile as her fingers continued to ply thread and hook.
    Phoebe moved over, sat in the pretty little tapestry chair that matched the one her mother used. “You do such beautiful work.”
    “I enjoy it. Satisfying. I know it doesn’t bring in a lot of money, Phoebe, but—”
    “Satisfying’s most important. The people who buy your work, why, they’re buying heirlooms. They’re lucky. Mama, Carly asked about Roy.”
    “Oh?” Essie’s hands stilled now. “Is she upset?”
    “No. Not at all. She wanted to know if I miss him. I told her the truth, that I don’t, and I have to hope that was the right thing.”
    “I think it was, if you’re asking me.” Concern filled Essie’s eyes. “We’ve had us some lousy luck with men, haven’t we, baby girl?”
    “Oh yeah.” Leaning back, Phoebe let her gaze wander to the ceiling, the beautiful plaster work of an old, grand home. “I’m wondering if I shouldn’t cancel this sort-of date I’ve got tomorrow.”
    “Why would you do that?”
    “We’re doing all right, aren’t we? Carly’s happy. You’ve got your satisfying work, I’ve got mine. Ava’s content—though I do wish she and Dave would stop pretending, now that they’re both single, that they’re not attracted to each other. So, why mix anything else in with having drinks in some pub with a man I don’t even know?”
    “Because you’re a lovely young woman, with so much of her life ahead of her. You’ve got to step out of this henhouse sometimes. Which may sound silly, coming from me, but it’s true.” Essie’s hands started moving again. “The last thing I want is for you to start boxing yourself in, holing up in this place we’ve made here. You have that drink and that conversation tomorrow with this good-looking man. That’s an order.”
    Amused, Phoebe angled her head. “So it’s do what you say, not what you do?”
    “Exactly. Mother’s privilege.”
    “I guess I will, then.” She rose, walked to the door, turned back. “Mama? No online shopping for Carly this weekend.”
    “Oh?” The single syllable resounded disappointment.
    “Mother’s privilege,” Phoebe echoed, then headed off to work.

3
    Phoebe took her place at the front of the room. She had twenty-five cops in this training session, a mix of uniforms and plainclothes of varying ranks.
    A good portion of them, she knew, didn’t want to be there.
    “Today, I’m going to talk about the tactical role of the negotiator in a crisis or hostage situation. First, are there any questions regarding yesterday’s session?”
    A hand shot up. Phoebe swallowed her instinctive annoyance. Officer Arnold Meeks, third-generation cop. Bullheaded, belligerent and bigoted, in Phoebe’s opinion, with a thick layer of macho over it.
    “Officer Meeks?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” His smile usually started out as a smirk, and often stayed there. “You talked down a jumper the other day, St. Patrick’s Day?”
    “That’s correct.”
    “Well, ma’am, I was interested in some of the particulars, seeing as we’re in this training session with you. Now, I was curious, as it appears you broke some of the rules of negotiation during this incident. Unless being FBI-trained, as you are, things are different for you. Is that the case?”
    Her early federal training would always rub some of the rank and file the wrong way. They’d just have to live with it. “Which rules did I break, Officer Meeks?”
    “Well, ma’am—”
    “You can use my rank, Officer, as I do yours.”
    She watched annoyance flicker over his face. “The subject was armed, but you engaged him face-to-face,