Page 78 of The Woman By the Lake

Dave clapped him on the shoulder and Brenda shot him a glare, before that melted, and she gave him a finger wave. They then headed to their truck.

Riggs headed in.

He smelled the tacos the instant he stepped inside, his stomach made itself known again, and he looked right.

His son was sitting at the kitchen bar, Nadia leaned into her forearms opposite him, and his mother was at the end of the bar, by the open landing that led to the stairs, and beyond, the dining room. She had a glass of white wine held up in her hand.

It was then Riggs saw what Nadia was talking about when it came to his mom.

She was wearing dark jeans, a crisp blouse, a lot of silver, her hair was perfect, as was her makeup. She had her back ramrod straight, her legs crossed, one arm along her midriff, resting her other elbow on her hand to hold up her wine.

And she had an air of matriarch about her, surveying the scene, keeping an eye, even if all she surveyed was not technically hers, she was making it clear she claimed it on principle.

He was in a faded tee he got at a Springsteen concert years ago, a jean shirt over it, the jeans covering his legs had a split in one knee, and there was mud on his boots.

Abigail Riggs looked like she belonged in that fancy kitchen he’d renovated so everything was top of the line.

He looked like he was coming in for a glass of water after doing her yard work.

This thought making his mouth twitch, he went to his mom first, kissed her cheek, then to his son, where he mussed his hair while Ledge tried to duck it without really wanting to duck it.

And finally, he rounded the bar, dropped the grocery bag on it, put his hand on Nadia’s back and started rubbing, at the same time he smiled at her since she’d twisted her head to look up at him and was doing the same.

“Where we at?” he asked.

“Nadia is helping your son with his vocabulary homework,” his mother drawled.

He cut his eyes to his mom, then to his boy, catching his guilty look, then to Nadia, who was still beaming.

She was in her zone, happy to be doing teacher shit.

He looked to his kid.

“Ledge,” he warned.

“Dad, she likes doing it,” Ledger defended himself.

He had no choice but to let his hand fall away when Nadia straightened, asking, “What?”

“He’s in fourth grade, but he tests in reading at a seventh-grade level,” Riggs explained. “When they get into vocab, it takes him about a minute to finish the work. Sorry, honey, but he doesn’t need your help.”

Her jaw dropped and her eyes moved to Ledger.

“You were having fun!” he cried.

“Rascal,” Nadia replied through a smile.

Riggs pulled the clear plastic container of grocery bakery cookies out of the bag.

“Dad, totally lame,” Ledger decreed, eyeing the cookies. “I’m having leftover cake for dessert.”

“I don’t know,” Nadia said, also eyeing the container. “I’m going to soften some ice cream and make myself an ice cream cookie sandwich.”

“I change my mind,” Ledge stated immediately, “I’m having that.”

Christ, they were killing him with all this talk about food.

“Are we going to eat soon?” Riggs asked, his attention having moved to the meat simmering on the stove. “I haven’t had anything since this morning.”

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