By Lizz Browne:

I own nothing, and make no money. Murder, She Wrote belongs to universal.



Jessica stood at the kitchen door, watching her husband and her nephew playing together. Frank was trying to teach the nine year old boy with the dirty brown hair to play basketball. Jessica sighed happily as she watched them. Grady was settling in beautifully; he adored Frank, and sometimes to Jessica it seemed like he was their own son.




Of course, after that her thoughts invariably turned to the child she and Frank had never had. They had so wanted one, maybe two. She had prayed for a child, but the answer had been no. They’d been so close, once. She was pregnant, finally! And then she wasn’t. They told her if she made it through the first trimester she would be all right, and she had.




She resurfaced from her memories when she heard a shout from Frank. Grady had managed to get the ball away from him, and Jessica cheered from the doorway as he took a shot at the hoop.

“I got it!” he cried happily.

She watched Frank watching Grady proudly as he watched the ball spin around the rim, then fall away from the net and hit the grass with a thud. Grady shrugged.