He’d attended more than one Al-Anon support meeting, and he knew that his so-called difficulty with intimate relationships and trust issues were, at least in part, the product of growing up with an alcoholic parent. And while he supposed it was nice to know that he wasn’t alone in his screwed-up-ness, at the end of the day all that self-awareness did was make him more careful not to drag anyone down into a likely dead-end relationship with him.

“You hear yourself, right? You’re trying to control your feelings and the feelings of others,” Brooke had said one night during their junior year of college when she’d come down to visit him from the University of Chicago. They’d been out at the bars that night, and somehow had gotten into a long conversation about relationships. “That’s so common in adult children of alcoholics.”

In response, he’d told her exactly where she could stick her Psych 300 analysis.

But, seeing how she was a woman, he’d naturally said it with a lot of charm.

He walked into The Wormhole and smiled at the female barista, determined to put his encounter with Victoria out of mind. “I’ll take a twelve-ounce of your darkest roast.”

As he waited, he got a text message from his sister. Finally.

Sorry I’ve been MIA. It’s crazy here. Can’t do lunch tomorrow b/c I’m teaching a lesson, but we need to talk. Are you around monday?

He texted Nicole back—I should be home from work by 6—then grabbed his coffee and headed to his regular table underneath the Ghostbusters poster. Settling in to knock off some work, he pulled out his laptop and read through the file he’d obtained from the Cook County probation department on Darryl Moore.

As he’d suspected, the probation department had completely fallen down on the job—and April Johnson, seventeen-year-old honors student who’d planned to go to Drake University in the fall, had paid the ultimate price. Her killer, who was obligated to report to his probation officer once a month, stopped showing after two meetings. On top of that, probation officers dropped by his home on nine occasions, never once finding him there despite the seven P.M. curfew the judge had ordered as part of his sentence. Over the course of the next five months, Darryl Moore managed to get arrested three more times—including for criminal trespass at the high school just a block away from where he shot April Johnson. Yet, according to their records, the probation department knew nothing about any of his arrests.

Not surprising, Ford thought dryly, given the fact that the probation department had wholly failed to maintain any sort of contact with the guy.

So much for the “supervised” part of supervised release.

He made a note to call Moore’s former probation officer—a veteran with twenty-eight years on the job—to see if he’d agree to an interview. Then he checked the clock on this laptop and saw that it was nearly time for him to meet Charlie and Tucker at the gym.

As he was packing up his notes and computer, he spotted her.

Victoria.

She sat at a table near the back of the coffee shop, underneath the Goonies poster, with her cappuccino mug and laptop in front of her as she read through some documents.

He slung the messenger bag over his shoulder, not thrilled to see her leisurely hanging about in his coffee shop. He debated whether to simply ignore her and leave, but ultimately decided, since she seemed to be so interested in his personal life, that there was something he would like to say on the matter.

She looked up from her laptop when he stopped at her table. From the flicker of surprise that crossed her face, he gathered she hadn’t realized he was in the coffee shop.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, without preamble, “the blonde is just a friend, and the most intimate thing the brunette and I shared last night was polite conversation before I walked her downstairs to a cab. As for tonight, there’s no redhead currently in the lineup, most unfortunately, but given your proclivity for spying, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know if that changes.”

Victoria threw him a wry look. “I wasn’t spying. The brunette knocked on my door, and you and the blonde were out on your deck, which happens to be the one next to mine.”

“Huh.” Ford rubbed his jaw, pretending to consider this. “See, it’s funny, because I’ve been inside your place. Owen and I used to hang out. And if I remember correctly, if you’re standing inside, it’s not exactly a direct line of sight to my deck. You have to sort of press yourself against the glass door”—he leaned against the table, demonstrating—“and then crane your neck to the side in order to see anything. See that?” He repeated the move. “Press, and then crane. Now some people, Ms. Slade, might call that ‘spying,’ but you’re right—it’s unfair of me to make that assumption when we don’t even know each other. For all I know, you often spend your Saturday evenings just hanging out, smooshed up against your sliding glass door. If you ask me, that sounds a little uncomfortable, but hey—to each her own, right?”

In response to his speech, she said nothing at first. Instead, she took a sip of her cappuccino and then set down the mug. “Point made.”

From her begrudging tone, Ford got the distinct impression that Victoria Slade, Esquire, didn’t enjoy being proven wrong about anything.

Score one for the juvenile.

* * *

“WHAT ARE THE odds?” Victoria paced in front of one of the racks in Rachel’s shop. The boutique was only a few blocks away from The Wormhole, so she’d dropped by to tell her friend that the man they’d been ogling last weekend just happened to be her new neighbor.

And to vent.

“You should’ve seen him with his little press-and-crane routine. As if I am the person who overstepped boundaries here, when he’s the one sawing through walls and has women coming and going at all hours of the night, waking me up and knocking on my door.” She caught Rachel’s look. “What?”

Standing behind the counter while folding jeans, Rachel appeared amused. “I think the whole thing’s hysterical.”

“Yes, well, you don’t have to live next to the guy.”

“We are talking about the same man from the bar, right? Gorgeous, dark hair, a smoldering gaze that promises hours of dirty, mind-blowing sex? Yeah, it’s a real hardship having to sleep ten feet from him.”

Victoria shot her a wry look as she passed by a dress rack. “You forgot annoying, smug, and— Ooh, I love that dress.” Her attention temporarily diverted, she checked out a red, polka-dotted, vintage-inspired shirtdress.