Living room-fine. Dining room-whatever. Like he'd be doing a lot of entertaining. He went up the stairs and looked out over the open foyer-God! If he had kids he'd be scared they'd crash through the railing and plummet to their deaths. Who designed houses like this? He grabbed the polished oak railing and shook it to make sure it was secure.

He poked his head into an open door-his bedroom. Good enough. What concerned him most was his office- he'd told the movers that he wanted the biggest bedroom for his office space, and he was relieved to see they'd followed through.

Joe stood in the doorway of what was probably referred to as the "master suite" in LoriSue Bettmyer's world. It had a vaulted ceiling, dual ceiling fans, four huge windows, two walk-in closets, and a fancy attached bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub. He could live with that.

The movers had set up his desk against the inside wall. He'd have to change that. He wanted it by the windows. He'd be spending a lot of time at the computer, and maybe an occasional dose of fresh air and sunshine would lessen the feeling of imprisonment.

He bent down to double-check that all his computer equipment and files had been delivered. He counted thirty-two boxes. Everything was here.

Joe ran a hand through his hair and scratched his chin. His two-week goatee was just starting to feel smooth under his fingertips, finally past the itchy phase. He hadn't had facial hair since his Mexico City days, and it was going to take some getting used to. And the hair on his head-he'd had a good eight inches hacked off the day after Steve and his family were killed. He remembered watching the hair fall to the barbershop floor in dark hunks, visual proof that another undercover assignment had ended. He stared at the dark curls, waiting for the sensation of relief to hit him the way it usually did. That sensation never came.