Wasn’t it?

As Lizzie eased her truck off River Road and bumped her way over to the clutch of vehicles that were in the marsh and among the trees, her first thought was: The Rolls-Royce, really? Lane had seriously taken that beast four-wheeling into this swamp?

Then again, when you got a call that your sister was in trouble, you didn’t stop to get choosy with car keys—and when you found her waaaay off the road? That was where you went with whatever vehicle you were in.

Fortunately, Lizzie’s truck was all-wheel drive. So thanks to that and well-treaded tires, she had no problem pulling around and—okay, wow. Just . . . wow.

One of the Bradford family’s Mercedes was embedded in a tree, with a busted-out window on the driver’s side and a half-spidered windshield in front. The good news? Gary McAdams was on it. With his far larger and even better-equipped Ford, he was backing right up to that rear bumper, Lane waving him forward inch by inch.

As Lizzie got out, she made sure her headlights were off, even though she wasn’t sure what she thought about no one going to the police with all this. Lane had called her a couple of times, updating her, and finally she’d just had to leave the hospital. Besides, Miss Aurora was no longer even remotely conscious, and so there was nothing really to do until, or if, that changed.

And this situation in the marsh was the sort where another pair of hands was going to help.

Another set of chains, probably, too.

Lane spoke up over the growl of the truck’s engine. “You’re there.”

Gary put things in park, and as he got out, Lizzie went up to Lane and shared a kiss with him. “What the hell happened here?”

“A whole lot of batshit nuts.”

“Clearly.” She glanced at the groundsman. “Hey, I’ve got extra chains, if you need ’em.”

The man repositioned his John Deere cap on his head. “Might. Gonna have to get the big ’un out, too.” As he nodded at the Rolls, he started dragging pounds and pounds of steel links out of his bed. “That’s the one I’m worried ’bout. ’Cuz we gonna need to keep ’er pretty.”

As Gary turned around, he had to have almost forty pounds in one hand, and he handled the load like it weighed nothing. Lane and Lizzie both helped him find the hooks under the Benz’s rear bumper and then they were all working together to get the hooks locked in. After that, it was a case of Gary getting into his truck and slowly . . . carefully . . . gently . . . inching the Mercedes off of the tree and through the muddy, sloppy ground.

When the S550 was free and clear, Gary leaned out of his window. “I’m takin’ ’er back to the shop. Then we’re gonna chop ’er and sell ’er for parts, bury what’s left on the mountain. We cain’t be turnin’ ’er in. Bullet holes, everywhere.”

“Good plan.” Lane put his hand on the man’s forearm. “Thank you.”

“Just doin’ m’ job.” Gary looked at Lizzie. “You got the Rolls, then?”

“Yup, I got it.”

“That’s m’ girl.”

Funny how the approval from him about getting a half-million-dollar car out of a swamp meant so much to her.

As Gary eased down the tracks that had been made and then inched onto the road, Lane put his arm around her and kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s just go home in your truck for now, ’kay? We need to see what happened with Gin, and—”

“Nay, we shall leave no man nor motorcar behind.” She nodded at the Rolls. “First, let me try to drive that out, though. We might get lucky.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’ve got it.”

As he broke away, she tugged him back around. “Lane. I’d prefer not to have to chain that thing. We’ve got one shot to make it out of this mess”—she indicated the mucky ground—“and only one shot. That car has to weigh at least six, maybe seven thousand pounds. It’s been sitting there how long? An hour? If you put it in reverse and hit the gas? You’re going to dig a hole to China and I’m going to have to trash the back half to pull it out.”

Lane opened his mouth. Shut it. Frowned.

“I know,” she pointed out reasonably, “that the guy in you doesn’t want to be upstaged by a female, but who are you going to trust? A city boy like yourself—or a farm woman who’s been getting heavy machinery out of the mud since she was twelve? And please remember, the longer we’re out here, the better the chance we have of getting caught.”

Lane jacked up his pants. “I’m a real man,” he said in a deep drawl. “Man enough to step aside when the situation warrants it.”

She gave him a big hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

Heading over to the Rolls, she tried to kick off at least half the mud on her shoes, and then she got behind the wheel. The automobile started up softly, and she put the gearshift in reverse. Testing the accelerator, she gave it a little gas. A little more.

It was like a hundred-mile-long train, a huge monolith that barely moved. But that was because she was taking things slow: In increments of millimeters, with the gentlest of coaching, she got some traction and some trajectory. And a little more. And a little more . . .

All was going well—until she hit an obstacle and couldn’t make any more progress. It could have been a root. A stump.

Jeez, with the way things were going tonight, a dead body.

She added some more juice. And more.

Nothing. And she was on the very edge of the wheels beginning to dig.

Easy on the gas, she told herself. And then redouble it. And easy off. And more with the gas . . .

With careful control, she started to rock the Rolls—

Okay, that was funny.

Rock, the Rolls, rock, the Rolls—

And then, just as she felt that she was on top of whatever it was, she gunned it—and up and over she went.

“You got it!” Lane yelled.

“Not yet,” she murmured.

Please, she thought. Let’s have the front go just as well.

As she repeated the careful process, Lane watched her, the glow from the running lights illuminating the smile on his face: Unlike most guys, who might have gotten shirty, he was clearly impressed—and when she finally got the front of the Phantom over the hump, and coaxed the massive convertible up onto the pavement, he was clapping as he came over.

Annnnnnnd that was when the cops showed up.

TWENTY-EIGHT

As Samuel T. came up Easterly’s hill for a second time, he was staging another intervention with himself. Which, he supposed, was a bit like a lawyer representing himself in court—you know, that whole fool-for-a-client thing. But he wasn’t going to anyone else with this, and besides, he sure as hell knew both sides to the argument by heart.

Parking in the front of the mansion, he grabbed the little white Rite Aid bag and went in the front door. Across the black and white marble floor. Up the stairs to the second floor.

He didn’t knock at Gin’s door. Just walked right in, and as he saw her lying down over on the bed, he frowned.

“No shower?” he said as he closed things up.

When she didn’t respond, he got scared. Again. But no, she was still alive. She was still breathing.

But he couldn’t believe this nasty-neat of a woman was lying on her white duvet in that dirty dress. Clearly, all rules were off, however.

Leaving the bag with the prescription in it on her bedside table, he went into the bathroom and filled up a monogrammed glass with water. Back by where she was curled up, he got the bottle out, popped the lid, and made sure that the description of the pills matched what was inside.

Then he sat down on the very edge of the mattress.

She didn’t move.

And you know, it seemed especially apt to conclude his intervention right here, at the basis of his addiction. Somehow, in spite of his best intentions, he had managed to fall for her once again: When she had looked up at him, through tears and her own blood, and said she was sorry about Amelia? He had been, stupidly, ready to forgive her for even the worst betrayal anyone could ever do to him. In that moment, as their eyes had met and she apologized . . . it was as if she had wiped the slate clean between them.

Taking her into his arms at that point had been a reunion, even though he had seen her only thirty minutes before.