But he was going to go to the hospital. For one, he wanted to find out whether or not Chantal had in fact lost a baby. For another, they were taking her down to University Hospital, where Miss Aurora was, and he’d intended to visit his momma, anyway.

First, though, he had to talk to Lizzie.

As the medics got Chantal up off the cold marble floor and started strapping her onto the gurney, he left them to their job and went out. Lizzie and Sutton were down at the car, the Phantom’s suicide door wide open, Lizzie sitting in the front passenger seat.

Descending the short steps, he crossed over the lawn. “I’m so sorry about that.”

Lizzie didn’t meet his eyes. “Oh, not to worry.”

Glancing at Sutton, he nodded at the other woman. “Listen, we’re going to head down to the hospital—”

“Actually, that stomach flu is really making me sick.” Lizzie lifted her head. “Sutton, do you suppose your friend over there with the badge would be willing to drive me back to Easterly? If not, I can catch an Uber—”

“I’ll take you home.” Lane kneeled down and took Lizzie’s hand. “Dear Lord, you’re freezing cold.”

“I’m just under the weather.” Lizzie stared up at Sutton. “And if I can just get a ride home—”

“We’ll take you, of course.”

Lane frowned. “No, I’ll—”

Lizzie cut him off with a shake of her head. “It’s fine. Honestly. You don’t have to worry about me. But I don’t want to give this to Miss Aurora, and I know you’re going to see her.”

Well . . . shit. “I won’t stay long.”

“Take as much time as you like. I just want to lie down.”

As Sutton went over to talk to the officer, Lane moved his face into Lizzie’s stare. “Chantal’s crazy—she’s totally delusional, and the only reason I’m going is because of the estate situation now that my father’s died—”

“I know. It’s fine.”

“Mr. Baldwine?” one of the medics said. “We’re about ready to leave now if you want to follow in your car.”

Lizzie stood up and Lane had to move back to give her space. As she smiled at him, he told himself the expression reached her eyes. “I’m going straight home and taking a nap. By the time you get done, I’ll be back on my feet and ready to go.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Me, too.”

She patted his arm and then turned away toward Sutton, and he hated her slow, careful steps—hated even more that it was clear she didn’t want him to escort her to the police vehicle.

This whole thing was his fucking fault.

And the mere appearance that he might be picking Chantal’s crisis over Lizzie needing him sucked.

He waited as Lizzie slid into the front passenger seat of the marked car, and he waved until he couldn’t see the brake lights through the gravestones anymore. Then, cursing to himself, he got in the Rolls-Royce and followed the ambulance out of the cemetery. He wasn’t looking forward to tangling with all the reporters at the front gates again, but what else could he do? If he took a different route, he ran the risk of getting separated from Chantal as she was checked in.

And he was right. There were still plenty of reporters on the outside of the gates, and another round of flashbulbs went off as he pulled through in the Phantom. But he was not going to cover his face or duck. Screw that.

Once they were on the road proper, the ambulance hit its sirens and lights, and they sped along, taking a short route into downtown that avoided the highway.

For the entire trip, the only thing he kept thinking . . . was that it was a damn shame he couldn’t kill his father all over again.

The University Hospital’s complex took up multiple city blocks, the various steel and glass skyscrapers linked by pediwalks that extended over the network of streets and alleys around them. On the sides of the buildings, the titles of the services were preceded by the names of families who had given donations in support of their missions: the Bradford Stroke Center, the Smythe Cancer Center, the Boone Rehabilitation Center, the Sutton Emergency Department.

The ambulance went around to a series of Authorized Vehicles Only bays, and Lane parked the Rolls in the lot off to the side while the medics backed into position. Getting out, he put his hands in his pockets and strode across the hot asphalt to a set of electronic doors. As soon as he walked into the waiting area, people stared at him because they recognized his face.

This happened a lot. And not just in Charlemont.

Thanks to his previous playboy lifestyle, he’d been in the press even before all the current bankruptcy problems had hit. Now? After his father’s death and Edward’s arrest and Chantal’s bullshit domestic-violence accusations, he might as well have had a neon sign around his neck that read YES, I AM WHO YOU THINK I AM.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked as she fixated on him.

“I’m here for Chantal Baldwine. She’s being admitted right now—she came in by ambulance?”

The woman nodded. “Someone will come to get you as soon as I can. They can, I mean—ah, may I get you anything?”

Like she was the hostess at a cocktail party? “No. Thank you.”

As her eyes followed every move he made, Lane went across the waiting area and took a load off in a plastic chair in the far corner, away from the TV and the vending machines. God, he hoped this didn’t take forever—

“Mr. Baldwine?” somebody said from a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. “Your wife is—”

“Thank you.” Lane got to his feet and strode over. Dropping his voice, he muttered, “And she’s not my wife.”

The nurse blinked. “My apologies. I thought she said—”

“Where is she? And forgive me for being rude.”

“Oh, I understand, sir.” The nurse stepped back so he could pass by—while sparing him a glance that suggested she didn’t understand at all. “This is a difficult time.”

You have no idea, he thought.

Lane was led past a nursing station and various glass-enclosed treatment areas. Chantal was down on the left, and as he walked in, she threw out her hand and looked at him with wild, scared eyes.

“Darling, the baby . . .”

The two nurses who were hooking up IVs and monitoring equipment to her froze and glanced over at him. And as they struggled to refocus on their job, he wanted to scream at Chantal to cut the shit—but he wasn’t going any more public than they already were with this.

Sitting down in a vacant chair, he stared into Chantal’s carefully made-up eyes. Her mascara wasn’t smudging in spite of the tears, and he wondered if she’d planned that for the confrontation—or whether she kept things waterproof just in case she had to bust out the crying.

Still, she really didn’t look well. Gone were her fancy casual clothes, the pale blue hospital johnny she’d changed into too loose for her small frame, the swell of her belly more obvious now, even through the thin blankets that covered her.

And she was very pale; underneath her spray tan, her skin was the color of a tissue.

“The attending will be in here directly, Mr. and—ah, Mrs. Baldwine.” The nurse who’d brought him in focused on Chantal. “Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?”

“What’s going to happen next?” Chantal stammered. “What about my baby . . .”

“The blood tests will take about a half hour, and I’ll let the attending talk to you about next steps—but I imagine we’ll do an ultrasound.”

“Am I losing the baby?”

“We’re going to do everything we can to help you, Mrs. Baldwine.”

And then they were alone, the glass door shut, the drapes drawn.

“You are so cruel,” Chantal sniffled. “You are so mean to me.”

Lane sat forward and scrubbed his face. The urge to remind her of every awful thing she had ever done, not just to him but to Easterly’s staff and every waiter and waitress that had ever been within a Cosmopolitan’s order range of her, was nearly irresistible. But if she kicked him out, he was never going to know what was really going on.