“Of course.” Jessica forced her face into a smile so they walked out like two friends. Afraid her hand would shake, she offered the woman the lighter.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Excuse me, won’t you? I see a friend.”

She moved away, taking her time until she saw the woman chatting with another smoker.

She kept walking. Kept walking. And realized her hand wouldn’t shake. She not only felt steady, she felt triumphant.

She’d become someone to write about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Because she wanted to keep her schedule light for the summer, Cate limited her workload to three hours in the morning. It gave her time to spend with her father, time at the ranch. Just time.

She loved watching the way her father interacted with Julia, Gram, Red, and of course, Dillon. And knew some of her favorite memories would come from that summer. Watching fireworks explode across the sky with the horde of Sullivans, with Dillon and his family, riding with her father and Dillon to herd cattle from field to field.

Something she’d never expected to do.

Walks on the beach, dancing at the Roadhouse, a visit from Gino—thanks to Lily—to add a little sass to her hair.

She imagined today would add more memories with the Coopers’ big summer barbecue. She had a new dress, courtesy of a shopping trip with Lily. White might be a mistake at a barbecue, but it looked so fresh and summery with its floaty skirt and strappy back.

She hoped her contribution of bread and butter pudding held up to what she imagined would be amazing and plentiful food.

She’d just slipped it into the oven to bake when she saw her father through the wall of glass.

Opening the door, she called out, “Just in time! I put bread and butter pudding in the oven, and you can distract me from worrying about it. I dug out Mrs. Leary’s recipe, but I haven’t made this since I was a teenager. Why did I go with something I haven’t made in over a decade?”

Then she saw his face, and the buzz of excitement over the day silenced.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t had the news on?”

“No.”

Her pulse shuddered. Someone else? Who? God, she’d convinced herself it was over.

As they stood in the doorway together, Aidan took her hands. “Your mother’s been taken in for questioning over the death of her husband.”

“But . . . They said he’d had a heart attack. I know it got Red’s suspicions up again, but the man was, what, ninety? And he had medical issues.”

“It seems he had some help with the heart attack. They found digitalis, a lethal dose, in his drink.”

“God.”

“Here.” He slid an arm around her waist. “Let’s sit down out here. In the air.”

“Someone killed him. Poisoned him. They think she—But that doesn’t connect with any of the other deaths or attacks. It was his drink? Not hers?”

“His, yes. A gin and tonic, apparently. She was drinking champagne.”

“But then . . . It’s not connected. She didn’t even know him when everything happened.”

“No. Do you want some water?”

“No, no, Dad, I’m okay. It’s awful. A man’s dead, a man’s been murdered, and I’m relieved it isn’t connected to me. Except, I guess it is,” Cate murmured. “Is she actually a suspect?”

“The report said his death’s been ruled a homicide, and that she was being questioned. I don’t have much more than that.”

“Daddy.” She gripped his hands. “I understand neither of us really know her anymore, if we ever did. But do you think she’s capable?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation, she thought, and closed her eyes. “So do I. All that money, and she probably didn’t expect him to live so long. Just give him a little nudge—can’t you hear her think it—what’s the real harm? Or do we think that because of what she did to us?”

“I don’t know, baby, but it’s for the police to figure out. I didn’t want you to get blindsided.”

She reached for the bracelet she hadn’t put on, so just closed her hand around her wrist. “They’ve already rolled back to the kidnapping, haven’t they?”

“Yeah, and it’s going to get a lot more play.”

“I don’t care anymore. God, yes, I do. For what it does to you, Grandpa, G-Lil. How it’ll upset Dillon and his family. Tell me the truth, straight, Dad. Should I make a statement?”

“Let’s see where it all goes. She could be cleared, and quickly.”

“She could be cleared,” Cate agreed. “But having a second scandal like this? It’s never going to go completely away. She’ll know what that’s like now,” Cate said quietly. “If she’s innocent, she’ll know what it’s like now to be hounded by something beyond her control.”

Charlotte wanted to be angry, to be furious, but rage couldn’t cut through the ice pack of fear.

They’d questioned her. True, this time she had a fleet of lawyers, the best money could buy, but they’d shot her right back to that horrible day after Caitlyn’s incessant whining, to an interrogation room, to police accusing her of horrible things.

Her lawyers had done most of the talking, had called for a break when she’d dissolved in tears. Real ones, too. Not grief tears, but fear tears.

Wishing Conrad would just die didn’t make her guilty of anything. She’d given him the best years of her life. She’d been a faithful and dutiful wife—there’d been billions riding on it.

Why, she hadn’t even been at the table when he’d collapsed, but onstage, basking in the lights, making her selfless speech.

Hadn’t she rushed to his side—after only the briefest of hesitations? Annoyed, justifiably, that he’d chosen that moment to take the spotlight away. But she’d rushed to him.

She hadn’t expected him to die in her arms.

But, Christ, what a moment, she thought as she lay in bed, a cool eye pack over her aching eyes.

Thank God some of the press there had captured that moment. She could play off that for years.

But first, she had to get through this nightmare. The press again, crowding around, tossing questions, taking pictures as her lawyers and bodyguards surrounded her, pushed through them to get her inside her limo.

The way people looked at her, the way the reports added just that horrible touch of speculation and suspicion. They didn’t care how she suffered.

She needed to order some new black suits, and a hat, with a veil. Absolutely needed a veil to showcase the grieving widow.

She would grieve—she’d show them! Once this horror passed, she’d give a memorial worthy of royalty—and she’d be the queen.

No self-tanner, no bronzer for at least two months to lend that pale, stricken look. She’d spend some time in seclusion, maybe traveling to their—her—various properties around the world.

Remembering the happier times with the only man she’d ever loved. Yes, she could sell that.

But she had to get through the horrible first. Then demand the police apologize for putting her through such trauma while she was mired in shock and grief.