Dave was doing a lousy job of holding up his half of the house. My arms strained under the weight of his niece’s birthday gift—a large backyard playhouse—and it was slow going back to my car. The spring rain had soaked through the layers of cardboard, and my knuckles scraped against the hard red plastic panels where the box disintegrated. “You know,” I said, “that spin-art kit would’ve fit in the back seat with room to spare.” I hefted the playhouse, shoving it hard, but it jammed against my trunk’s lockbox, which held my service revolver. “And I bet Tara would’ve had a lot of fun with the costume trunk.” “My niece isn’t a princess dress kind of girl.” I stopped short as a red Subaru sped past, spraying the back of my legs with water. “The kit includes fake mustaches and Groucho eyebrows. She could wear those with the glittery pink sandals.” “Until she trips and breaks her skull.
