Exhaling, she felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her, and instead of continuing into the house, she went across and sat down on her porch swing. Kicking the floorboards with her foot, she listened to the crickets and the creak of the steel chains that were bolted into the ceiling above her head. She felt the soft, warm breeze on her face and watched the waning sunlight thicken into a peach wash that created long shadows across the good earth.
She needed to plant her porch pots—
No, she really didn’t.
Hey, at least she had good dessert tonight—Buella made pie that was out of this world. Maybe it would be peach. Or … blueberry.
Lizzie found herself wiping her eyes and staring at the tears on her fingertips.
It was a horrible thing to have to save herself by leaving all this—rather like, she supposed, having to cut off a diseased limb.
She’d been doing so well, she thought.
And then Lane just had to come back down here and ruin everything.
“That’s as much as Edward took out of there,” Lane said as he paced around the guest room Jeff had been given.
It was the best of the suites, looking out over the back garden and the river, and it also had a desk big enough to qualify as a kitchen counter. In fact, back a million years ago, the set of rooms had been his grandfather’s private quarters, and after the man’s death, nothing had been touched except for regular cleanings.
Jeff’s comment when he’d walked in had been stereotypically dry. Something about whether the Civil War had been commanded out of the space.
Predictably, though, the second the guy had accessed the financial data, the smartass qualifiers had dried up and the man had become all business.
“Anyway, it’s almost time for dinner.” Lane looked at his watch. “We dress here. Well, everyone except for me. So your suit should be fine.”
“Bring me something up here,” Jeff muttered as he yanked off his tie, his eyes never leaving his computer screen. “And I need some legal pads and pens.”
“You mean you don’t want to see me and my father glare at each other across the soufflé?” Yeah, ’cuz Lane was really looking forward to that himself. “You could also meet my sister’s fabulous new fiancé. The guy’s about as charming as cancer.”
When Jeff didn’t respond, Lane walked across and peered over the guy’s shoulder. “Tell me that makes sense to you.”
“Not yet, but it will.”
Right man for the job, Lane thought when he finally left.
Out in the hall, he found himself staring at his mother’s door. Maybe Edward was right. Maybe if everything went poof! his mother wouldn’t notice: All those drugs kept her cocooned and safe in her delirium—something that, for the first time, he was coming to understand.
On that note, how about some bourbon.
Heading for the front stairs, he decided he was going to skip dinner himself. He still wanted to punch the hell out of his father, but with Jeff in the house, he had, hopefully, a much better way of taking the man down.
And then he was going to follow Lizzie’s lead and get good and gone with all this.
It was just too much here, too Byzantine, too polluted.
Maybe he would go back to New York. Or perhaps it was time to cast a wider net. Take off to somewhere overseas—
Lane stopped halfway down the grand staircase.
Mitch Ramsey and two CMP officers were standing in the grand foyer below, their hats off, their faces like something out of a textbook on criminal justice: no expressions. At all.
Shit, Lane thought as he closed his eyes.
Guess Samuel T. had been able to work the old boys’ network only so far.
“I’ll go get my wallet,” Lane called out. “And I’ll call my lawyer—”
Mitch looked up just as Mr. Harris came bustling in from the dining room.
“Oh, Mr. Baldwine,” the butler said. “These gentlemen are here to see you.”
“I figured. I’ll just grab my—”
Mitch spoke up. “Can we talk somewhere privately?”
Lane frowned. “I want my lawyer present.”
When Mitch just shook his head, Lane glanced at the other officers. Neither of them were meeting him in the eye.
Lane descended down to ground level and indicated with his hand. “The parlor.”
As the four of them proceeded into the elegant room, Mr. Harris closed the double doors into the foyer—and by tacit understanding, nothing was said until the man came around to the other side of the room and closed those panels as well.
Lane crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s up, Mitch. You looking for a trifecta? Gin, then me—and now how about my father—”
“It is with profound regret that I inform you that—”
A cold shot of fear rocked through his body. “Not Edward, oh, God, please not Edward—”
“—a body was found in the river about two hours ago. We have reason to believe it is that of your father.”
The exhale that left Lane’s lungs was slow and strangely even. “What …” He cleared his throat. “Where was it found?”
“On the far side of the falls. We need you to come down and identify the body. Next of kin is preferred, but I never put a wife through that if I can avoid it.”
By way of answering, Lane went over to the bar cart and poured himself a measure of Family Reserve. After tossing it back, he nodded to Mitch and the other two members of law enforcement.