Page 187 of Lorenzo

“I saw your car.”

“That makes it a little less creepy.”

“Dinner is ready,” he says, ignoring me.

I stop, eyebrow lifted. “Dinner?”

“Yes.”

“I came over to talk about the investigation.”

“Are they mutually exclusive events?”

Now it's my turn to ignore him. “What are we having?”

“Chicken piccata.”

I look at him.

“With extra capers,” he adds.

My favorite. He knows it's my favorite.

His lips curve slightly. “You like capers.”

“I know I like capers.”

“Then I fail to see the problem.”

“There isn’t one.”

And there really isn’t.

I don't really know why I'm annoyed.

I follow him farther into the house while Mocha disappears ahead of us without bothering to check where I am.

He disappears through the open doorway into the family room. By the time I reach it, he has crossed to the far side of the room and is turning two slow circles on a large dog bed tucked near one of the chairs.

Then he lies down.

I barely register it at first.

Then I stop.

Mocha settles his chin on his paws.

I look at the bed.

Then at him.

Then around the room.

I have seen the bed before. And the water bowl beside it.

I remember Mocha sleeping on it the last time we were here. And the time before that. And I don't know how many other times before that.

It's a big, thick, oversized dog bed. More than large enough for a German Shepherd to stretch out on.