Struck by an impulse he could not deny, Edward reached across and squeezed a huge forearm. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s all right.”

“Edward—” Max’s voice cracked. “Edward, I’m so sorry.”

Had he found out about the suicide attempt?

Edward sat back and sorely regretted that silly attempt at self-harm. He had meant it only in the abstract. As soon as he had seen his blood flow from his wrist, he had known that he would not take the coward’s way out.

A mistake, not to be repeated. But surely, Max wouldn’t have heard about that.

Oh, wait, Edward thought.

In lightning succession, he added and subtracted the equations of both of their lives and came to the only sum total that made any sense in light of this emotional overflow—in a man who fought tooth and nail to remain untouched.

“I already know,” Edward murmured.

Max sniffed and frowned. “Know what.”

“That William wasn’t my father. That’s what you’ve come to tell me, isn’t that right?” As his brother looked shocked and then nodded, Edward took a deep breath. “Well, shall I say that I had my suspicions. I guess you’re saying that it is true?”

“Goddamn, how did you know?”

“He tried to have me killed in the jungle,” Edward said dryly. “Hardly a parental move even by his very low standards. More than that, though . . . he always looked at me differently. He wasn’t kind to you three, but there was a special, nasty light in his eye that he reserved for me and me alone. He literally hated the breath in my lungs, the beat of my heart—it went that deep, and it was there from the start. My earliest memory was of him glaring at me.”

“I’m glad he’s dead.”

“So am I.”

“I overheard them talking one night. That’s how I found out—and also why I left Charlemont when I did. I should have told you, but I didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay. It is not your fault or your problem.” Edward leaned in. “And a piece of advice, if I may? You’re still running from him, I get that. But you may want to reconsider the effort. To escape from a trap that doesn’t actually imprison you is not logical.”

Max’s bleak eyes drifted off. “He’s in my head. I can’t . . . I have nightmares, you know. Of running through that house. He’s behind me and I know what he’s going to do when he catches me, and he always catches me. He always . . . caught me.”

“He’s not on your heels anymore, Max. He just isn’t. And hopefully you’ll come to believe that someday.”

It was a long while before Max looked up again. “You were a really good brother, Edward. You took care of me when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was—you know, fucking up shit and all out of control, you always stood up for me. You always did me right. Thank you.”

Edward closed his eyes. “You deserved better than you got. We all did. And we’re all crippled—my version just happens to show on the outside.”

That was a lie, actually. He was ruined in his head, too. But his brother had enough on his conscience.

And yes, maybe Edward should take his own advice about letting the past go. File that under easier said than done, however.

“I never thought I would say good-bye to you,” Max murmured. “Or any of the three of you. But for some reason . . . I had to see you before I leave for good.”

“I’m hardly one to criticize you for cutting ties.”

“You’re the only person, then.”

“The others just don’t understand.” Edward shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, though. Just do you, Max. Find your freedom however you can, and live your life as best you’re able. We earned that right. Earned it the hard way in that house with him.”

Clearing his throat, Edward grunted and stood up. As his body swayed, he had to catch himself on the table.

“Are you going to be okay?” Max said, his eyes worried. “In the big house, things are rough.”

“I’ll be fine.”

As he held his arms open, Max got to his feet and came over. When they embraced, Edward held on only for the briefest of moments, and then he had to step back.

“Did you really kill him?” Max asked.

“But of course I did. Can you blame me?”

Edward limped over to the door, but paused before he banged on it. Without looking back, he said, “One thing, Max. Before you go, I want you to do something for me—and this is a non-negotiable, I’m afraid.”

THIRTY-THREE

When Lane finally got a text from Lizzie, telling him that she was coming over to Easterly, he raced back to the mansion from the Old Site and beelined for their bathroom. He wanted to see her all clean-shaven and smelling fresh, an un-wrinkled polo and pressed shorts on, a smile pinned to his face.

In other words, the opposite from how he’d been the night before.

When he’d roped her into lying by omission to the police to cover up a shooting.

Hell, maybe he just should tell her that he’d disclosed everything to the cop after she’d driven off in her truck—and point out that it wasn’t his fault that his family name had gotten him off the hook.

Yup, ’cuz that was going to help his case.

In the bathroom, he ditched his clothes into the hamper. They had been clean when he had put them on, but his body had not been, so he wasn’t going to re-wear them post-shower.

After he turned off the central air-conditioning, so he didn’t get a chill when he got out, he started the water running.

Towel. He needed a towel.

Turning to the tall, thin closet, he opened things up and fished around for—

A box dropped onto the floor, something falling free of it onto his bare foot. Bending down, he picked up . . .

A pregnancy test.

“I actually came to tell you. That’s why I’m here.”

He straightened and looked to the door. Lizzie was standing in between the jambs, her face sun-kissed as if she had been out in the good air, her blond hair down on her shoulders, her body looking . . . strong. Healthy. Powerful.

He blinked and glanced back at the box.

And then he snagged a bath towel and wrapped it around his hips. “Are you . . . when did you . . . are you . . . okay?”

As a thousand things went through his mind and his heart, it was a miracle he could speak at all.

“It’s why I’ve been sick,” she explained. “You know, in the mornings.”

He could tell she was holding back and trying to read where he was. And he wanted to respond to her, to reach past his shock and disbelief and find her in the midst of the announcement.

When that failed, he tried to make himself feel something.

Anything.

God . . . pregnant? She was having a baby, his baby?

Lizzie cleared her throat. “I, ah, I just took the test the day before yesterday. It was on a whim. I didn’t actually think I was. When it, ah, came back positive, I was shocked, and I thought, you know, I thought I would wait and test it again and see. But—”

“That’s why you asked me if I’d ever thought about being a father.”

“Yes, I mean, we haven’t discussed it before. And now, you know, we really have to.”

“Yes,” he said. “We should . . . talk about it.”

Lane went over and sat on the edge of the tub. Say something. You fool, say something, she’s waiting for you to—

“I’m keeping it,” Lizzie said roughly. “No matter what happens to you and me, I’m keeping this baby.”

He recoiled. “What? Of course you are. And—we’re getting married.”

“Are we? Still?”

Lane stared up at her remote face. “Yes, of course.”

Lizzie frowned. “I’m not Chantal. I didn’t do this to get you down the aisle, and the last thing I want is a husband who is operating out of responsibility, not love.”

With a sudden rush, Lane burst up, crossed the distance between them, and pulled her against him. Closing his eyes, he realized why he hadn’t been able to say anything, think anything, feel any sort of emotion.