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Sunday

     Reed Kincaid rearranged his living room furniture for the fourth time, looked around and slumped down onto the sofa, a defeated man.
     Even worse, he realized.
     The ivory leather sofas and mauve chairs worked together, but not sprawled across the reddish Persian carpet. The striped draperies were stylish, but clashed with the leopard footstool. And the expensive antique mahogany desk was distinctive, but seemed defiled by the pink lava lamp glowing on the corner.
     The room needed help.
     In fact, he knew, all the rooms in his new home located in the affluent suburb of Birmingham, north of Detroit, needed a great deal of help. Since moving in a week ago, he'd managed to prove only one thing: he had the decorating flair of a yak. Fortunately, Hallie, the woman who could rescue him, would be walking through the front door any minute.
     He picked up a Runners World and started quickly thumbing through it when the phone rang. He grabbed it.
     "It's me, Kyle." His brother sounded very excited and faint, like he was on a cell phone deep in the mountains.
     "Hey, Kyle, what's up?"
     "I need to talk to the police fast."
     "So why call me?"
     "My detective pal in Grand Blanc is out." Kyle coughed.
     "What's Norm's number?"
     "I don't know. Norm retired to Florida."
     "Damn. He's the only other cop who'd believe me."
     "Believe what?" Reed asked. Kyle, who never worried, sounded very worried.
     Kyle's coughed again. "A man I met Friday and this morning. I'll explain at your house. I'm five minutes away. But I have to talk to the police fast!" Another cough, then the connection crackled and died.
     Reed stared at the phone. Why did Kyle need the police? He tried to remember the last time his brother had sounded this frightened and realized it was many years ago, the day of their parents' accident. He started thinking back to that horrific day, when he heard a car turn into his driveway.