Funny, where life took people.

Reaching out, she took the large frame from its careful placement and brought it in for a closer look.

As she stood there, staring at the image of the two best friends in the sun, the sky over their heads so blue, the grass under their feet so green, she realized she was looking at Lane’s face and trying to read what his reaction would be to her pregnancy news. Which was nuts.

Leaning in to put the frame back, she—

Frowned and stopped.

There was something tucked in behind the photograph. A plastic bag?

Lizzie went back there with her hand before she thought about the invasion of privacy . . . and what she took out didn’t make a lot of sense.

It was a large, gallon-sized freezer bag, inside of which was a chef’s knife.

Putting the picture of Lane and Jeff aside, she examined the contents. There wasn’t anything notable on the blade or the black handle, no stains, chips or abrasions. Nor were there any identifiers, like a special nameplate or whatever.

Lizzie eyed the rest of the photographs. After a moment, she put the knife back and replaced the picture exactly where it had been. Then she left to go downtown.

And resolved to mind her own business.

“What do you mean he won’t see me?”

As Lane spoke, he leaned into the county jail’s registration desk. Like that was going to do any good. And what do you know, the female officer who had taken his name and typed a bunch of stuff into her computer just shook her head.

“I’m sorry.” She pointed to the monitor in front of her. “The request was denied by the detained.”

“Is Deputy Ramsey around?” He hated bothering the guy unless he had to. But this was serious. “Can I speak with him?”

“Deputy Ramsey has taken his unit in for hostage training all day today. Would you like me to leave him a message?”

“No, thanks.” He knocked the counter with his knuckles. “I’ll call him myself later.”

As he headed for the double doors, he was pissed, but until Ramsey was free, he wasn’t going to make any headway seeing Edward.

Damn it.

Then again, he’d had more emotion than agenda as he’d stopped by here on his way to the hospital. It probably wouldn’t have gone well. For godsakes, what could he say?

How could he say it?

Passing by the people who were cooling their jets in plastic chairs, he let himself out of the reception area and joined the march along the courthouse’s promenade of corridors. Instead of waiting for an elevator, he took the polished granite stairs in the center of the building’s seven-story atrium down to street level and exited onto the sidewalk.

He ended up going to the hospital on foot. It wasn’t far and he had the time because the board meeting had gotten out early.

But he didn’t go to see Miss Aurora first. At the visitors’ center, he asked for, and got, another room number.

Which turned out to be in the same building, though.

Going up to the third floor, he got off at a general inpatient unit and checked in at the nursing station. Then he went down a long hall, passing by carts of cleared meals, rolling bags of laundry, and pieces of medical equipment.

When he got to room 328, he knocked.

“Hello?” came a female voice.

“It’s Lane. May I come in?”

“Hold on.”

There was some rustling, and then Chantal said in a stronger tone, “Please. Thank you.”

So polite. And as he entered, he kept his eyes averted because he knew she wasn’t going to want him to look at her too much. Chantal had always preferred only to be seen when her makeup and her hair were done and her clothes were properly matched to the situation.

A quick glance confirmed that she was in a hospital johnny and fresh-faced.

Or rather, without foundation, blush, lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara.

In fact, she was anything but “fresh” looking. Her skin was sallow, her mouth a flat line, her eyes bloodshot and badly bagged.

“You are kind to come by,” she said as she unfolded and refolded the top edge of her blankets.

“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I have a nice view, don’t you think?”

As she indicated the bank of windows, he obligingly went over and checked out the skyscrapers, the river, and the green farmland of Indiana.

“They’re going to have to operate on me,” she murmured.

He changed his focus so that he saw her reflection in the glass. She was examining her manicure.

“What do they have to do?”

“A D and C. Apparently, I haven’t . . . passed everything.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Is your mother coming?”

“She’s on a plane now. She arrives in about an hour.”

“Good. She will take fine care of you.”

“She always does.”

Turning around, he put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Do you need anything?”

“Have you seen today’s paper?”

“No.” He thought of those pictures of them that had been taken at the cemetery. “But I can guess what’s being reported.”

“I’ve been asked to comment.”

“My phone’s been ringing, but I haven’t been picking up.” He had other things to worry about. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“Neither do I.”

His brows lifted of their own accord. “Really.”

Chantal nodded as she inspected her thumbnail. “I’m going back to Virginia. After all of this. I’ll be at Briarwood for the foreseeable future.”

Her parents’ estate, he thought.

She cleared her throat. “So, yes, Samuel T. can send anything he needs to there. You know, pertaining to the divorce.”

“What about your lawyer here in town?”

“Just send the papers home. I’ll sign whatever. I don’t . . . I don’t really care anymore.”

Now he stared hard at her. It was difficult to know whether or not this subdued version of the woman could be believed. Or whether it would last. He had come here out of a sense of obligation—and maybe a little because he had wanted to know how her mood was.

He had certainly not expected this.

“I’m not going to fight you,” she tacked on.

“Okay.”

“I’m done with that.”

“All right.”

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Well, I’m going to go see Miss Aurora now. Let me know if you need anything?”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“Oh, I’m glad. I know she means a lot to you.”

“Okay, then. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too.”

He nodded once and headed for the exit, stepping around the foot of her bed. He was almost to the door when Chantal’s voice stopped him.

“I’m sorry.”

Lane looked over his shoulder. She was staring across the shallow space at him, her face serious.

In the silence that followed, he supposed he could have asked her exactly what she was apologizing for, and maybe he would gotten some particulars. But they both knew what had been said and done on each of their parts, particularly hers.

He thought again about that party they’d met at. He could have taken any one of a number of women home that night. And he could have chosen not to follow up with Chantal afterward. Looking back on it, he couldn’t remember why he had called her again, why he had met her out for dinner a couple of days later, why, following that, he had agreed to escort her to a gala for some ballet or opera or whatever it had been.

Was destiny just an accident, he wondered, the intersecting paths of people’s lives nothing more than marbles spilled on a floor, the contacts random and purposeless? Or was there a higher plan?

He knew what his momma would have said to that. Knew also what Miss Aurora would have wanted him to say right now.

“I am sorry, too,” he whispered.

And it was a surprise for him to find . . . that he meant that.

After Chantal nodded once, Lane lifted his hand as a good-bye and then he turned and did not look back again. As he made his way back down the corridor to the elevators, he had the strangest feeling he was never going to see her again.