“That’s nice of you,” Cate said as Maggie cackled.

“Nothing nice about it. That’s been top of my wish list since we found out she was part of what happened to you.”

Fascinated, Cate studied the face she knew so well. “You always seem so calm, so level.”

At that Maggie threw back her head, literally hooted before she set the plate of apple and cheese slices on the table. “Go after one of her chicks, my girl will kick a dozen asses, and won’t bother to take names.”

“Names wouldn’t matter. She’s not going to stop, Cate. I honestly believe she’s not capable of genuine emotions, but only greed and envy. You have to face that. And still, the bottom line is she’ll never have it. She’ll never have any piece of you or your family.”

“In fewer words, fuck her.”

Julia shifted her gaze to her mother. “Well, those are fewer words.”

“Why not be succinct?” And she touched Cate’s heart when she skimmed a hand down her hair just as she had to Julia before she sat. “Now, put the cheddar on the apple, and eat something happy.”

Doing what she was told, Cate ate the happy.

It didn’t take long for a few enterprising reporters to dig their way to her phone number, her email. She blocked and ignored.

But the call she’d dreaded most came through.

Voice over voice—her mother’s, her own singing a happy song from her first movie role, the horror movie laugh, whispers. Digitized, she knew, jerky. Layered together, inexpertly but effectively, into a clear message.

“You didn’t do what you were told. Now people are dead.”

“Blood is on your hands. More will die. Your fault. It’s always been your fault.”

She made a copy for herself before handing her phone over to Michaela. She’d buy a new one, again. Change her number, again.

It would be, she knew, the same as always. Bits and pieces from recorded interviews pieced together, layered together into a new recording, and sent from a prepaid cell.

“That’s the best they can do?” Dillon demanded.

Cate bent down to pet the dogs who now had beds and toys at the cottage. “It’s the reality of it. It’s a crappy voice-over hack. Record a recording, pull out specific words or phrases, layer, merge, send. I could do a better job in my sleep, so it’s an amateur. The recordings are always full of noise—static, vibrations, the echo of the room,” she explained.

“I don’t much give a damn about the quality.”

“It probably lets my mother off the hook. She’d be able to pay for better. And as for Sparks, where’s he going to get the equipment in prison?”

“These calls are threats, Cate. You need to take them seriously.”

“It’s a scare tactic, Dillon, and it’s lost its ability to scare me. I’m taking Gram’s advice on my mother, applying it here.”

“Which is?”

“Fuck them.”

It felt damn good to say it, to mean it.

“I’ve got a big, strong rancher and a couple of fierce guard dogs looking out for me. Lily’s coming home tomorrow. I’m not letting anything spoil that.”

“You didn’t tell Hugh about this latest call.”

“I will, just not right this minute.” She got him a beer, poured herself a glass of wine. “Let’s take the fierce guard dogs for a romp on the beach before dinner.”

“Rain’s coming.”

Lips pursed, she looked out at the pretty summer sky. “I don’t see rain.”

“You will, but we’ve got a couple hours first.”

Dillon didn’t push—what was the point? But he cornered Red the next morning.

They stood on rain-soft ground in air fresh as a spring daisy pouring feed mixed with raw milk into the pig troughs.

“I never thought I’d get a charge out of feeding pigs, but here I am. Milk-fed pigs at that.” He scratched his ear. “Nice soaker we had last night.”

“We needed it. What do you know about these calls, these recordings Cate gets?”

Red glanced over where one of the seasonal hands fed the chickens. Since it was baking day, both women manned the kitchen.

He’d checked the daily work list, so he knew Julia had assigned others to muck out the stalls, but the horses had to be fed, watered, rubbed down with insect repellant before going out to pasture.

“Let’s talk about this in my office. How’s she handling this one?” he asked as they walked.

“Like it’s no big deal, and it damn well is.”

“You know she’s been getting these calls for years now, so the impact’s bound to fade.”

“That doesn’t make this one nothing.”

When Dillon opened the stable doors, the air filled with horses, grain, leather, manure. All combined into a perfume he’d loved all his life.

Knowing the routine, Red took the first stall on the left, Dillon went right.

“Mic will do what she can, plus she’s got the cop in New York. The FBI’s on it, too. There’s an agent who follows through on these whenever she gets one.”

“How come they can’t trace it back?”

“A lot of reasons.” They both scooped out grain. “Recording’s not long enough, it’s from a drop phone. Whoever’s sending it destroys the phone and battery right after—from what I’m told they figure. It’s always recordings of recorded interviews or movie clips. They’ve actually been able to match some of those. Not the same message every time.”

“Threatening her, scaring her.”

“Yeah, same sentiment, you could say. One of the theories was some nutcase obsessed with Cate wanted attention. But that’s thin now considering it’s gone on for years.”

“Her mother could be behind it. Cate doesn’t think so because it’s shitty quality, and the woman has plenty of money. But that could be a cover, something to make it seem like it’s just some nutcase.”

Red moved to the next stall. Every horse in the stables had its head out, watching. Like, Hurry up, man, I’m starving here.

It never failed to amuse Red.

“That’s been my thought,” he told Dillon. “Cate usually gets one around the time some story hits or Dupont gives some interview that gets a splash. It could be her way, her sick-fuck way, of taking an extra shot at Cate.”

Dillon walked back to get the prenatals for the pregnant mare in the next stall. Once dispensed, he marked the clipboard outside the stall.

“If that holds true,” he said, “it’s not a real threat. Just petty and mean.”

“Charlotte Dupont’s got petty and mean to spare. I wouldn’t put it past her to find someone to cause Cate real harm, but without Cate, she loses the easy lift.”

Red frowned at the clipboard, turned. Dillon already had the horse pill punched into a quartered apple. “He won’t take his med otherwise.”

“I remember.”

“Be sure he doesn’t just spit it out. He’s sneaky about it. What do you mean, ‘easy lift’?”

“When she wants a publicity boost, she plays the sad, repentant mother with the unforgiving daughter. Some quarters buy that act.”