Soft amber lights flanked the front door. Rosebushes lined the front walk. The roses glowed white in the moonlight. Vince followed her up the steps, admiring her behind in a pair of blue jeans. “You live here alone?” “With my father. He allegedly needs a keeper.” “Right. You said his health is poor. What does he have?” “His heart is bad,” she said. “Literally and figuratively.” “How old is he?” “Seventy-nine,” she said, unlocking the front door and letting them in. She glanced up at him, catching the surprise on his face. “My father was an English professor with a wandering eye. My mother was his much-younger student.” Vince kept his mouth shut. He had to be happy her father was seventy-nine and not forty-nine. Anne started to go down a dark hall, and he caught her gently by the arm. “Whoa, sweetheart.
