“What are you really worried about here?” he asked. “Hmm? Why are you causing this trouble? Moe’s going to run the stables just as well as I could have, probably better, and you will always have a job at the Red and Black. You’ve got that nice young man in your life. Listen to me.” He shifted his hold to her hand. “You’re safe. You’re not going back to having nothing, okay? You’re not an orphan anymore.”

“Why are you doing this? Why you lyin’?”

Edward released his grip and shifted his mangled legs out from under the table. It took him two tries to stand up before his thigh muscles were willing to do their job and he fucking hated the delay.

“Shelby, I need you to let this lie. I want you to leave this jail, go back to the stables, and forget about me and all this nonsense. This is not your problem. Do not worry about me.”

“You already suffered so much—”

He knocked on the metal door and prayed Ramsey was right outside.

Just as the lock was being released, Edward glanced over his shoulder. “If you want to help me, you will walk away. Do you hear me? Just walk away, Shelby—and as long as you do that, you and I are even. When you needed it, I gave you a job and a place to stay, and you owe me for that. So let’s be even and both move along.”

As the dawn’s rays surmounted the roof peaks of the garages behind the mansion, Lane was still sitting on his stool at Miss Aurora’s counter. He couldn’t feel his butt, and one calf muscle was hurting like he might have thrown a clot. Yet, he stayed where he was and watched the golden glow penetrate the windows and creep across the spotless tile floor.

Thank God day had finally arrived. Some obstacle courses had nothing tangible about them, and yet they were crucibles nonetheless, and grinding his way through those dark hours with nothing but regrets he could do nothing about had been torture.

A quick glance at the clock by the bread box and he shook his head. On any other day, Miss Aurora would already be up and putting homemade cinnamon buns and pecan rolls in the oven and getting out her omelet pans to do eggs for everyone. There would be coffee brewing, right over there, and in the sink, there would be a strainer full of blueberries or strawberries. Cantaloupe would be ready for slicing, and oranges set for juicing, and by the time the household was down in the family dining room, the first meal of the day would be all set in warmers and on the table.

If there were no overnight guests, Miss Aurora served things herself. If there were, she called in reinforcements.

Lane’s eyes traveled around, going from the pantry to the cupboards to the stove to the sink . . . then once more around the catering section.

It was pacing. For someone who was too tired to move—

With a frown, he slid off the stool and went around the island. By the burners, there was a stand of knives in a butcher-block holder, their various-sized black handles sticking out, ready to be grabbed by an expert hand. One of them was missing.

“Okay, who was the idiot who put a blade in the dishwasher?”

The idea that somebody had used one of his momma’s Wüsthofs and then tossed it into Cascade-land with the mixing bowls and the wire whisks? It was downright sacrilegious. She always washed her knives by hand. Always.

Sharpened them herself, too.

Opening up the machine, he pulled the top rack out and riffled through the utensils, measuring cups . . . spatula . . . small bowl . . . small bowl. Sliding all that back into place, he checked the lower level and didn’t find anything knife-ish, either.

Well, at least it hadn’t gone through with the rest of the stuff.

Lane closed everything up and leaned over the sink. Nothing in the basin. Nothing in the drying rack.

“Damn it.”

With a sense of urgency, he went across to the catering section in the unlikely event the other two dishwashing units had been run. Both were empty. Nothing in any of the sinks over there, either.

Somewhere in his brain, finding that missing knife equated to saving Miss Aurora’s life. It made absolutely no logical sense, but try making that argument to his growing sense of panic. With his heart pumping hard, he began yanking at drawers, going through all kinds of pot holders, mixing spoons and ladles, peelers—

“Lose something?”

With a curse, he spun around and grabbed his heart. “Hey. Hi . . . good morning.”

Lizzie was standing just inside the kitchen, her sleepy eyes and mussed-up blond hair, her strong body and clean smell, like a sunrise inside of him, bringing him light and warmth.

“What are you looking for?” she said with a smile as she came forward to meet him halfway.

As they embraced, he closed his lids. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Yeah, he thought, just the fact that he was convinced if the phone rang and Miss Aurora had died just now, it was because he couldn’t find her knife.

Straightening, he brushed a strand of her hair back. “Let me make you breakfast?”

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry. Maybe I’ll try some coffee? Or . . . I don’t know. Water.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

She went over and sat on his stool. “Have you been down here long?”

Leaning back against the counter, he shrugged. “A little while.”

“Makes sense. This is Miss Aurora’s space. If you can’t be with her, you might as well be here.”

He glanced around for the hundredth time and nodded. “You’re too right.”

“So are you ready for today?”

With both hands, he rubbed his face until his nose felt chapped. “I mean, yes and no. I want to go visit with her some more. There’s no way I’m not going to—but it’s so damn hard to see her in that bed with all those machines keeping her alive.”

“I was talking about your father’s interring?”

Lane frowned and dropped his hands. “Is it—oh, hell. It’s today, isn’t it.” When she nodded, he curled up his fists and wished he could make a big frickin’ loud noise. “Guess I’ve lost track.”

What he wanted to say was that the last thing he needed right now was to waste even an hour dealing with his father’s ashes. He hadn’t respected the man in life. In death? Who the hell cared.

“Are you having a preacher come?” Lizzie asked.

Okay, he had to laugh at that. “I thought about it and decided there was no reason to waste a man of God’s time. That sonofabitch is in Hell, where he deserves to be—”

“Huh? And here I thought I was in Kentucky.”

At the sound of the male voice, Lane looked over his shoulder. Jeff Stern, his old college roommate, was coming into the kitchen, looking about as fresh as a daisy that had been without a water source for six days. On a windowsill in the sun. After someone had played He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not with all of its petals.

Still, his dark hair was wet from the shower, his big city-chic, rimless eyeglasses were in place, and he was in his uniform of business suit slacks, a button-down with an open collar, and wingtips: Wall Street veteran trying to be casual. The jacket to the suit was draped over his arm and there was no tie to be seen.

“So, boys and girls,” Jeff said as he put that jacket down on the counter and checked out the paper. “How we doing—oh, heeeeeey, nice picture of me. That’s the one from the bank’s annual report. Wonder if they got permission or just stole it.”

He unfolded the first section and kept reading with a nod. “Yup, I liked that reporter. I’m going to use her again when I have to lie about what’s really going on at Bradford Bourbon.”

“How were you untruthful?” Lizzie asked.

“Are you going moral on me?” Jeff smiled and put the paper aside. “This is wartime. Okay, fine, maybe I should have used the word ‘spin.’ ”

Lane shrugged. “He told her that the off-balance-sheet financing my father did was part of an overall strategy of diversification—that just happened not to go well.”

“Instead of outright embezzlement.” Jeff went over to the refrigerator and grabbed the milk. “Although I declined to name any of the companies, the media will find some of them—and there’ll be chatter about how William Baldwine’s name is on a lot of assets outside of the BBC. We’re not out of the woods on this problem yet.”