Unlocking the sedan’s doors, he opened up the entire vehicle, got out his phone, and shined the flash into floorboards, around the seats, over the armrest. Nothing seemed out of place, but this was just a delay tactic to get his shit together. When he’d gone through everything in the car proper, he retracted himself and hit the trunk release.

Before he looked in there, he walked around the exterior of the car, looking for dents and scratches. Then he checked out the wheels. No mud or anything in the tread or the rims.

It was like the car had been detailed.

Bracing himself, he went to the back and slowly opened the trunk’s lid. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find . . . maybe a tangle of leaves or sticks, bloodstains, twine that had tight knots in it. Fragments of his father’s clothes.

There was nothing.

The sound of tires coming over the pea-stone drive brought his head around. The unmarked police car was gray with darkened windows and he checked his watch. Not bad.

Detective Merrimack got out, and for once, he didn’t bother with that smile thing. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at the car.”

“That’s possible evidence in a murder investigation.”

“I’ve got gloves on.”

Merrimack came over and started shutting the doors, his hand covered with a bandanna he had taken out of the pocket of his windbreaker.

“When can you get forensics out here?” Lane said.

“They’re on the way.” Merrimack looked up to the security cameras mounted on the business center. “Where’s the knife?”

“In the kitchen.” Lane snapped off his gloves. “Come on in.”

“I’ll take those car keys—which you’ve touched.”

“Sorry.” Even though he wasn’t. “Here.”

As they went inside, Merrimack wrapped the keys up in the bandanna and disappeared them into his windbreaker.

“Did you handle the knife?” the detective asked.

“I didn’t take it out of the bag, no.”

Over at the counter, Merrimack inspected the blade without picking it up. “Can you show me where it was found?”

“In her private quarters. This way.”

When Lane came up to the door, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve already opened and closed this.”

“Of course you have.”

Inside, he pointed to the picture he’d taken down and the hole it left in the lineup. “There. Lizzie found it there.”

“Earlier today, right?” Merrimack went over and leaned in. “That’s when she found it?”

“Yes.”

“And why was she in here? What was your fiancée doing in Miss Aurora’s quarters?”

Merrimack started to walk around, his hands clasped behind his back as he inspected everything. And yeah, Lane wanted to shove the guy out of Miss Aurora’s private place. She would have hated this stranger with his suspicious eyes and his judgmental airs in here.

“I told you. She wanted to bring some photographs down to the hospital.”

“For a woman who is in a coma?”

Lane narrowed his eyes. “She came around enough to talk today. Lizzie thought it would be nice for her to see some of the people who love her.”

“From what I understand, she’s very ill.”

“You want to tell me what you’re getting at here?”

Merrimack poked his head into Miss Aurora’s bedroom. “I just think it’s a little curious, s’all.”

“What is.” So help him God, but Lane wanted to get one of Miss Aurora’s iron skillets and forehand the guy in the head with it. “What’s curious?”

Merrimack took his sweet damn time in answering. And then dodged the question entirely. “I heard from down at the jail that your brother Edward declined to see you this morning.”

“So.”

The detective wandered over to the BarcaLoungers and seemed to look out the bay window to the courtyard. “Are you aware that he was recently paid a visit by one of the staff psychiatrists?”

“No.” When there was another pause, Lane put himself in the detective’s way as he straightened. “I’m really bored of this.”

“Your brother tried to slice his wrist open with a homemade prison knife a couple of nights ago.” As Lane felt himself go numb, he was aware of Merrimack focusing on him with the intensity of a searchlight. “You didn’t know this?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

Edward had tried to commit suicide? Lane thought.

“I understand that your family is very close to Deputy Ramsey,” Merrimack continued. “That in the past, you’ve called on him to help you all out. For instance, I know you asked if he was available this morning when you were trying to see Edward. It’s nice that you have found such a source of support in him.”

“Ramsey never told me about Edward.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“He didn’t tell me! You want to call Ramsey and get his side of it? Because I will guarantee you that he’ll say the same thing. He didn’t call me.”

“I’ve already spoken to him.”

“Then why the hell are we talking about this?”

Merrimack dropped his voice. “You don’t think it’s even slightly suspicious that your brother tries to commit suicide, you have ties in the very department that oversees the jail, and within no more than a day or two, you start hitting me up with theories that he didn’t commit murder—and then try to provide me with some proof? Like cameras that show nothing, a knife in a bag, a car you yourself have just gone through.”

“I’m not faking anything here. My brother didn’t kill his—my father.”

“But, wait, it gets better—to top it off, the person that you’re wanting me to believe did do it is a woman who is about to die. Pretty effective way of getting your brother out of jail. And you can’t put someone who is dead on trial or in prison, can you.”

Lane considered getting into it with the guy, but then decided it was better to show, not tell, wasn’t it.

“Your forensics people are going to find what they do.”

“They will. And you should be aware that tampering with evidence is a very serious crime, Mr. Baldwine.”

“I didn’t touch a damn thing.”

“You were just poking around a car you told me I should find evidence in, remember?”

“Why are you so determined to blame Edward? Let me guess, you don’t like rich people, and you’ve put me and my whole family into that category.”

The detective pointedly glanced around. “We’re not exactly in a double wide here, are we.”

“Your job is to find the truth.”

Merrimack walked out of the open doorway of Miss Aurora’s quarters. “You don’t need to remind me of my duties.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

As Lane exited as well, the detective took a spool of police tape out of his windbreaker. “Do not go in here for any reason. Or the car. And if you find that you can’t abide by those rules, I’ll make it really easy for you and turn this whole house and all of its grounds into a crime scene. Now why don’t you head back to that hospital while we work. If Miss Aurora comes around again, I’m going to want to speak to her.”

For a moment, Lane wanted to protest being dismissed from his own goddamn property. But then he just nodded and walked away.

Arguing with Merrimack was going to get him nowhere.

Other than more pissed off than he was already.

TWENTY-TWO

Eight hundred miles.

Well, eight hundred and twenty-seven, according to what the Mercedes’s trip computer had read.

As Gin felt the heat of Samuel T.’s anger, she decided it had been stupid to think she could get herself ready for his reaction. Even driving through the night, with nothing but endless role-playing and hypotheticals to keep her awake, had not prepared her for the reality of his fury.

“Are you even kidding me,” he demanded.

She didn’t try to respond. He was pacing now, his bare feet slapping against the floorboards of the porch, his hands on his hips, his head down as if he were trying to control himself and losing the battle.