But then?

Oh, Gin, he thought. Then you showed up again, didn’t you.

I get to keep the ring.

Even after she had nearly been killed, and nearly killed someone else, and in spite of how badly she might have been injured . . . Gin Baldwine had still showed a finesse and a focus for the bottom line. The financial bottom line.

As if he needed a reminder of her capacity for calculation.

And the thing was, after all these years, and all of the backs and the forths, if he couldn’t make a break with her now—after the Amelia revelation? When would it happen? What else could she do to him?

He didn’t want to find out.

Getting to his feet, he stared down at her for a little longer. Then he quietly left, shutting the door behind him. Before he departed from the house, he tried to find someone—and when he failed, he considered knocking on her mother’s door and asking the nurse in there to do double time. But that felt like an invasion of the family’s privacy.

In the end, he went out to his Range Rover and texted Lizzie and Lane that somebody needed to make sure that Gin took that pill. With food—as the bottle’s label had mandated.

That was not his job, however.

As he drove back down to the main gates, he called a number out of his recents log and waited. When he got voicemail, he cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he said as he hit his brakes. “I’m sorry for my delay in response.”

The gates opened slowly, and as he passed through, flashbulbs went off but did not penetrate the SUV’s darkened windows.

“So, yes, Prescott. I will go to that party with you this weekend. I’ll be there, and I’m looking forward to it.”

“What happened here, folks?”

As the officer got out of his squad car by the Rolls-Royce, Lane lifted his forearm to shield his eyes from the flashing lights.

“I went off the road,” he called up to where they were on the road. “It’s my fault.”

With a quick glance behind, he prayed that all that illumination wasn’t picking up on the bullets, shell casings, ruined tree—shit.

“During the storm, then?” the officer said as Lizzie got out of the Phantom’s driver’s-side door.

“Hi, Officer.” She stepped in and shook his hand. “My boyfriend—”

“Fiancé,” Lane corrected from the marsh.

As the officer laughed, Lizzie continued in a calm way, “My fiancé got stuck driving in the storm—”

“—and I was blown off the road,” Lane finished.

“So I had to come with my truck to help him out.”

“But she managed to get my car free by herself.”

“Without using my chains.”

“No chains were used,” he echoed.

Shit, he should go up there, but he was frozen, all deer-in-the-headlights.

Glancing over his shoulder again, he tried to see what the officer could see: Lots of tire tracks, mud, a couple of saplings that had been bent over, Lizzie’s truck off to the side. Was the guy going to pick up the fresh scars on that trunk?

“What about the truck?” the officer asked. “Do you need a tow for it?”

“Nope,” Lizzie said. “She’s a four-by-four, with good treads. I’ll be fine.”

“Well.” The officer looked around. “Bad storm, huh.”

Lane waited for the other shoe to drop. What the hell were they going to do if—

“You want me to wait while you get the truck free?” the officer asked.

“Sure,” Lizzie answered. “But would you mind moving your car this way? You’re kind of in my best path out.”

As she spoke, she moved her arms in a manner that . . . yup, if the uniform followed her direction, he would get those headlights pointed out of the marsh, not into it.

Lane could have kissed her. And made a mental note to do that as soon as he could.

“No problem.”

As Lizzie came back down into the weeds, she whispered, “Go up there. Occupy him.”

“I love you.”

“I am not happy about this.”

Lane traded places with her and kibitzed with the officer as she slowly backed her old Toyota through the trees and maneuvered it up onto the road.

As she pulled in next to the cop, she smiled. “Not bad for a country girl, huh.”

“Only a country girl could do that,” the cop said with respect. “But, listen, you mind if I take a look at your license, registration, and proof of insurance? Both of you?”

“Right here, Officer.” She leaned across the seat and popped open the glove box. “Here’s the last two. License is in my wallet, which is here in my jeans.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The man took a penlight out of his front shirt pocket and beamed it on the documents. And when Lizzie passed him her license, he did the same. “Everything looks great. But your headlights are off.”

“Oh!” She took the documents and laminated card back. “Sorry. They are. You going to give me a ticket for breaking the law?”

He smiled. “If I catch you without them on at night again, I sure am.”

“Thanks, Officer,” she said. When there was a pause, she glanced between them both. “Ah, so, Lane, I guess I’ll see you back at the house?”

“You sure will,” Lane murmured.

As Lizzie headed off down River Road, the officer turned to Lane. “Before you go.”

“Yup, I’ve got my license and registration, too.” He took his wallet out of his back pocket. “Here’s this. The rest is in my car, hold on.”

While the man checked out that part, Lane went over to the passenger side of the Rolls and got the other stuff. After the cop looked it all over, he returned everything.

And promptly dropped the act.

“So you want to tell me what really happened here?” The young man nodded into the marsh. “That tree looks like it was hit pretty hard. By a car.”

“We haven’t been drinking. The storm was bad.”

“I believe you about the drinking. You’re not slurring your words, and her ability to get that truck out of here like that is a sobriety test if I’ve ever seen one. But your car’s in perfect shape. So’s the front of her truck. What happened to that tree, Mr. Baldwine.”

Lane took a deep breath. What he wanted to say was this was none of the police’s business. He had handled things privately, and that was all anybody needed to know. The trouble was, that was the 1950s talking, back in the era when the privilege of wealth and status put his family above the law.

“Mr. Baldwine,” the cop said. “I think you knew my father, Ed Heinz. He worked up at Easterly on the grounds crew until he died four years ago. And my brother, Rob, is one of the painters you all use on the regular.”

“Oh, sure. I knew Mr. Heinz. Yup. He used to plant and tend all the fields on the flats.”

“You went to his funeral.”

“I sure did. You want to know why?”

“We were surprised, to be honest.”

“He helped my brother get—well, actually, it was a Rolls-Royce, too, as a matter of fact—out of the cornfield once. Max drove my father’s new car in there. This was, like, back in the mid-nineties. I never forgot how nice he was. We ruined his corn. Well, part of it. And he still helped us.”

The officer started to laugh. “I remember him telling us all about that. Oh, he used to tell that story a lot.”

“And there were others, I’m sure.”

“Never a dull moment at Easterly.”

“Not as long as Max was around, for sure.”

There was a long pause. And then Lane looked at the officer.

“My sister married Richard Pford the other day.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I read about it in the paper—my wife and I were saying that there should be some big wedding up on the hill. That going to happen?”

“No.” Lane shook his head. “Richard beat her tonight. Chased her out into the storm. She took off in one of the family cars and he followed her in his own. He ran my sister off the road and her Mercedes is what hit the tree. If you want, I can take you to the car.”