Then she took the stairs two at a time and, for lack of any other source of reassurance, she spoke to Hoover.

"We may have a situation on our hands," she said.

The dog blinked and yawned, exposing a set of huge white canine teeth. He waited briefly for some kind of command, then burped and went into Matt's room, where he collapsed in a heap.

"You call yourself a watchdog," she muttered.

Then she saw them.

The spy binoculars sat precariously on the edge of Mart's small desk, the lenses reflecting the hall light. She grabbed them, slinked down the hallway to her bedroom, and locked her door.

Now if this wasn't, the lowest point in her life, she didn't know what was. She was going to spy on her new neighbor! And after the lecture she'd given Matt that very afternoon!

But that sound-it could be anything, right? And those animal noises! If it wasn't murder, maybe he was injured. What if her new neighbor was having some kind of spasm or epileptic fit and swallowing his tongue?

She turned off all the lights in her room. She stood at the window facing the drive and tried to figure out how to focus the binoculars. She certainly wouldn't be discovering any new solar systems with these cheap plastic things, but she hoped they could at least put her mind to rest about the tongue swallowing.

She aimed out the window, and in the light from the Connors' patio she guided the binoculars through the tree branches, located the fence, and tilted down until she could see the pool area.

A punching bag. The guy was pounding on a punching bag. That realization took about a nanosecond to register in her brain before the real important information came to the forefront: LoriSue, God bless her slutty little soul, had been absolutely correct. He was male-stripper material, and he'd been thoughtful enough to strip to a pair of athletic shorts on his very first night in the neighborhood.