Never a bad thing.

Gin pivoted around. Her daughter was wearing skinny jeans that made her legs look like soda straws, a black Chanel blouse with a white collar and cuffs, and a set of Tory Burch flats.

Say what you would about her attitude, she looked straight off the streets of Paris.

“Amelia. What are you doing home?”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Gin went to tell Lizzie to leave, but the woman had already disappeared out one of the back glass doors into the garden, the exit shutting with a quiet click.

For a moment, images of Amelia growing up bombarded Gin’s mind, replacing the here and now with the then and gone. The past held no improvement on the current estrangement, however, the distance that bred such present hostility forged in the years of Gin behaving like a sister rather than a mother.

A resentful sister.

Even though it was far more complicated than that for her.

Things had certainly been calmer of late, however. Then again, Amelia had been sent off to Hotchkiss not just as a way to further her education, but to quiet the storm that brewed every time she and Gin were in the same room.

“Well, it’s always lovely to have you home—”

“Is it.”

“—but this is a surprise. I wasn’t aware that summer vacation started this early.”

“It doesn’t. I got kicked out of school. And before you try to go parental on me, may I remind you that I’m just following the example you set?”

Gin looked to heaven for strength—and what do you know, as she was in the conservatory, the glass ceiling permitted her to see the blue sky and clouds far above.

Indeed, parenting was so much easier if one personally set any kind of standard at all.

Make that any kind of positive standard.

“I’ll just get settled up in my room,” Amelia announced. “And then I’m meeting friends out for dinner tonight. Don’t worry. One of them is twenty-five and has a Ferrari. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

TWENTY

Following the meeting with Lenghe, Lane walked into Easterly and didn’t get far. Mr. Harris, the butler, strode out of the dining room with a tray in his hands. On it were half a dozen sterling-silver objets d’art, including the Cartier candy dish that sat on the curved tail of an upside-down carp.

But the Englishman wasn’t coming on the approach to talk about his polishing plans.

“Oh, well done, sir. I was just going in search of you. You have a visitor. Deputy Ramsey is in the kitchen.”

“Yes, I saw his sheriff’s vehicle parked outside.”

“Also, the notification for the visiting hours has gone out. The e-mail was necessary due to our time constraints. I would have preferred proper mail, of course. The responses have already began streaming in, however, and I believe you will be pleased with the turnout.”

Three things went through Lane’s mind, one after the other: Hopefully the guests wouldn’t eat or drink much; wonder what people would say if they did a cash bar; and finally, God, he’d never thought about per-head costs before.

As he became aware that the butler was looking at him expectantly, Lane said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“There has also been a new arrival in the household.”

The butler stopped the news flash there, as if he had been offended by Lane’s mental recession and was going to force interaction as payback.

“So who is it?” The Grim Reaper? No, wait. Bernie Madoff on a work-release program. Krampus—nope, wrong season.

“Miss Amelia has returned. She arrived by taxi about ten minutes ago with some of her bags. I took the liberty of having them placed in her room.”

Lane frowned. “Is it summer vacation already? Where is she?”

“I gather she went to find her mother.”

“So the mushroom cloud should be hitting the horizon soon. Thank you, Mr. Harris.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

For some reason, with the way the man said the words, they always came out sounding like “screw you.” Which made one want to take that black tie from around his neck and—

No, enough with the dead bodies, even on the hypothetical.

Lane flushed his brain, walked across the foyer, and entered the stark hall that preceded the entrance to the kitchen. As he came up to Rosalinda Freeland’s old office, he paused and traced the police seal that remained on the door.

The fact that he wasn’t allowed in there seemed emblematic of what his whole life had become.

Maybe Jeff was right. Maybe he couldn’t keep a lid on everything that was falling apart. Maybe the world didn’t run like it had back in his grandfather’s, and even his father’s, day, when families like his had the power to protect themselves.

And honestly, why the hell was he ruining relationships that mattered to him for his father’s bullshit?

“Hello, sir.”

Lane glanced over. A blond woman in a maid’s uniform was coming out of the laundry room, a long, loose swath of fine cotton over her arm.

“It’s Tiphanii,” she said. “With a ph and two i’s.”

“Yes, of course. How are you?”

“I’m taking good care of your friend Jeff. He’s working so hard up there.” There was a pause. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you.” Clean duvet covers aside, she had nothing he wanted. Or ever would. “But I’m sure my old roommate appreciates the personal service.”

“Well, you’ll let me know, then.”

As she sashayed off, he thought of the first season of American Horror Story and the maid who was sometimes old, sometimes young. That one there was definitely the latter. The good news? At least Jeff was no doubt getting a chance to burn off some stress. And Tiphanii wasn’t a ghost who would go post-menopausal on the guy at an awkward time.

Man, you’re just like your father.

“No, I’m not.”

When Lane entered the extensive, professionally appointed kitchen, he smelled hot cross buns and found Miss Aurora and Officer Ramsey sitting side by side on stools at her granite countertop, a pair of coffee mugs and a plate of those sweets between them. The deputy was in his tan, brown, and gold uniform, a gun on his hip, a radio up on his huge shoulder. Miss Aurora was in an apron and loose blue slacks.