“I’m not following, I’m sorry?”

“Remember when he told the police that he’d hurt his ankle down by the river when he was movin’ the . . . ah, the remains? He said that he had to call the doctor ’cuz he hurt hisself then—but that wasn’t what happened. I called Dr. Qalbi because Edward fell downstairs here in the barn before the murder. I was there, and I had to help him back to the cottage.”

Lane took a sip from the glass just to give himself something to do. “But couldn’t he have hurt the ankle again? Down by the river that night?”

“But he was walking just fine when I read about the death in the paper. And again, I know when that doctor came out because I was the one who phoned him. Edward hurt himself after the killing.”

As Lane’s mind raced, he blinked. A couple of times. “I, ah, so, this is a surprise.”

Was Edward lying to protect someone? Or was Shelby’s timeline off ?

“There’s another thing that don’t make no sense,” the woman interjected. “That truck Edward said he took to Easterly and put the body into? The winch was broke—the one he told them he used to get your all’s pappy up onto the bed, it’s broke.”

Lane got to his feet and paced around, ending up in the cold blast coming from the AC unit. He thought back to everything that Edward had said to Detective Merrimack and the other policemen . . . and also the evidence the CMPD had on him, namely, that he had destroyed the footage from the cameras on Easterly’s garage side from that night. If only there was—

He pivoted back to his hostess. “Shelby, are there security cameras here on the property?”

“Yessir. And I asked Moe how to work them. There’s a computer in the downstairs office that runs it all, and that was the next thing I was gonna tell you.”

“Did the police ask to see anything? Any footage, I mean, from here.”

“Not that I know of.”

What the hell, Lane thought. Then again, the CMPD was short-staffed and they had a confession along with evidence of Edward’s having tampered with the security monitoring files. Why would they need to go any further?

“Can you take me to the office?”

Ten minutes later, he was seated at a beat-up pine desk in a room that was about the size of a shoe box. The laptop was new, though, and the camera system was easily navigated, the six zones offering images of the entrance gates, each of the three barns, both front and back, and the two other exits on the farm. There was nothing on the caretaker’s cottage; then again, the value of the enterprise was in the horse flesh, not anything inside that little house.

“He didn’t leave the premises,” Shelby said as she leaned back against the rough wall. “I checked the footage. The night that the newspapers say that your pappy was . . . he died? Edward dint leave this farm. There ain’t no camera on the cottage, but that truck he says he used? It was parked behind this barn all night. And no one came in or left in any other kinda vehicle.”

Lane sat back in the chair. “Well . . . shit.”

Shelby cleared her throat. “No offense, Mr. Baldwine, but I don’t care for cussing.”

It took almost two hours to go through all the files thoroughly, and in the end, Lane agreed with Shelby’s assessment. That truck with the winch that was evidently broken had stayed put behind Barn B all night long. And there were no comings or goings of any other cars or trucks. No one even walked around the property.

What was he missing, though? He wanted to get all excited, but the cottage wasn’t on a camera feed. Edward could have . . . oh, hell, he didn’t know.

“Thank you,” Lane said as he took out the USB drive that he’d saved all the files on.

“Your brother ain’t no murderer.” Shelby shook her head. “I don’t know what happened between him and your all’s pappy, but he didn’t kill that man.”

“I hope you’re right.” Lane got to his feet and cracked his neck. “Regardless, I’m going to take this to the right place and we’re going to get to the bottom of it.”

“He’s a good man, your brother.”

Lane had an urge to hug the young woman, and he gave into it, wrapping his arms around her quick. “I’m going to take care of this.”

“Your brother gave me a job when I dint have anywhere to go. I owe him—even though he’ll not be appreciatin’ how I’m paying him back like this. But I gotta do what’s right.”

“Amen to that.”

On the way back to Easterly, Lane tried Lizzie’s cell phone again. Twice. When he got voicemail both times, he cursed and would have texted her something, but he was driving and decided a car wreck was not going to help any one of the nightmares he was stuck in.

He was about a mile away from home, heading along River Road in the direction of Charlemont’s downtown, when the shore made a turn and he could look up at his family’s estate on its hill. In the gloaming, the great white house was bathed in the last of daylight, as if it were being illuminated for a movie shoot.

Quite an impression, even to the jaded, and it was clear why one of his ancestors, he wasn’t sure which, had decided to take that famous pen-and-ink drawing of Easterly and slap it on the front of every bottle of No. 15.

The best of the best. No compromises, no exceptions.

Would they even have a bourbon company after all this?

Instead of tangling with the press who were at the main gates, Lane took an early left onto the service and staff road that ran up the back of the estate’s acreage. As he passed by the greenhouses where Lizzie and Greta cultivated plant material for the gardens and the terraces, he pictured his woman in and among the ivy sprouts and the flowers and the nascent shrubs, happily doing the job she loved. And then there were the fields that would be planted with corn and other crops soon. She loved being out on a tractor or a mower in the fresh air.

His outdoor tom girl. Whom his momma had approved of.

As a hot spear of pain shafted his heart, he focused on the lineup of 1950s-era houses that were cookie-cutter close in style and now, following the dismissal of the staff, all abandoned—except for Gary McAdams’s cottage and then the one his brother was staying in.

As Max’s motorcycle was gone, it was clear he wasn’t around, and hopefully, the reckless bastard wasn’t getting arrested.

One Baldwine behind bars was more than sufficient.

Easterly’s service and delivery area was concentrated in the broad gravel courtyard in the back of the house, a sprawling vacant expanse which was bracketed on one side by the ten-car garage and the other by the business center. Lane parked the Phantom undercover in its slot and then walked over to the lineup of cars sitting grille-first against the converted stables. Miss Aurora’s red Mercedes was showing a fine covering of dust and pollen that had been pock marked by raindrops, and Lizzie’s truck had a bed full of mulch. Gone were the Lexuses and the Audis of the senior executives who had worked on site with his father—and good riddance.

Lane pivoted and looked at the back kitchen door. Then he glanced up to the security camera mounted under the eaves.

What if Edward hadn’t done it, but was covering for someone else?

Then there was only one other person it could be. And unfortunately, that suspect wasn’t much more reassuring, on a family scale, than the one who was currently putting his feet up in jail.

Taking out his phone, Lane bit the bullet.

And called Detective Merrimack.

As the phone started to ring through the connection, Lane had to wonder if he was going to get one of his brothers out of prison . . . just so he could put the other one in it.

FOURTEEN

The best thing about doing eighty on a motorcycle was the blur in your peripheral vision. Everything took on a comforting haze, the landscape becoming only stripes of color: gray for the pavement, green for the shoulders of the road, velvet purple and blue for the twilighting sky overhead. And then there was also the heaven of the physical demands of controlling the bike. Leaning into the curves of the farm road, crossing the yellow line to get a better pull around tight corners, curling over the tank like it was an extension of your body . . . you could almost believe you’d left your demons behind.