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She set up her desk and erected her board, spending time pinning maps, timelines, photographs, and notes in careful order.

The second spare room she left exactly as she found it. She had no use for it. The dogs certainly didn’t appreciate her efforts to make it their room.

Nope. Not at all.

One of them — Maisie, the pack leader — simply dragged the little bed across the hallway into her bedroom. The other two joined, snuggling in. They kept Felicity up half the night with their wheezing.

She was starting to read their personalities. Millie, the oldest at eleven, was the palest of the three, her fawn coat faded almost silver around the muzzle. Maisie, eight, was stockier, with a darker mask and the stubborn streak of a dog who believed the world existed solely for her convenience. Maggie, seven, fully black, was the smallest and quickest, her bright eyes always searching for the next interesting object.

And they all shed like tiny, enthusiastic fur factories, keeping the new Roomba gainfully employed.

But she had another issue facing her.

Her gaze flicked from the package on the kitchen table to the door and back again.

Get a doggie door, her logical mind had suggested when she first faced the conundrum of dogs and twelve-hour shifts. The sheriff might get away with bringing Kismet to the office, but she couldn’t exactly show up with three pugs in tow. And she didn’t want strangers in her house to let the dogs out for walks and potty breaks.

So, she bought a doggie door.

The installation, however … yeah, that was outside her wheelhouse.

And there was only one contractor who came to mind.

*

Ronan grabbed his tools and gear from the truck bed and made his way to the back gate where Felicity waited for him. A bright light flooded the yard, almost blinding him with its intensity.

His heart had kicked hard when her message came through: Does your offer of help extend to installing a dog door?

Marine: Yes. When?

Felicity: Tonight. I’m back on shift tomorrow.

Marine: See you in twenty.

Felicity: Thank you.

The pugs hovered nearby, snuffling and snorting at the wooden sawhorses he leaned against the back porch railing. Calling it a porch was generous. It was nothing more than a narrow landing in front of the back door — and in desperate need of repair. He made a mental note to come by and fix it.

One of the little pugs grumbled, and he crouched, taking a few minutes to play with them and learn their names.

Then he straightened and got to work — setting up his tools, prying the door free from its stubborn hinges, and laying it across the sawhorses.

The dogs crowded his feet, and he called out to the woman leaning against the empty doorframe. “Best you call these rascals in. The sawdust will irritate their eyes.”

“Right. Of course.”

With great effort she herded them up the steps.

It was … endearing. And a little sad. She clearly had no idea how to handle them. They were running rings around her. Literally.

One authoritative command would bring them to heel.

“Felicity.”

Wiping at her forehead, she turned. “What?” she snapped.

“Handle them like one of your suspects,” Ronan said. “Calm voice. Clear command. No negotiation.”