“Your mouth hasn’t stopped you,” Lane said. “But it hasn’t done you any good. Look at who you’re marrying, for instance.”

“Richard is one of the wealthiest men in the state, and he can help our business.”

“You hate him.”

“So does everyone else. That’s hardly a news flash—but this brings me to the issue. Your little darling girl Lizzie said I need your permission in order to have my reception here. I told her it was not going to be a large affair—four hundred, at the most—”

“Wait, what?”

“My wedding reception. The licenses are being issued tomorrow, and we are going to the courthouse on Friday. Father’s visiting hours are the day after that. The reception will be here on Saturday—just cocktails in the back garden followed by a dinner—”

“Gin.”

“What?”

“Who’s going to pay for all that?”

“We are. Why?”

Lane’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t have the money, Gin. As in checks will bounce. Do you understand what I’m telling you? There is no money right now. I’m trying to fix that, but I don’t care if it’s four hundred or forty people—we can’t write any checks that aren’t necessary.”

“We’re paying for Father’s visiting hours.”

“And that’s it. The parties are over, Gin. The private planes. Hell, taxis are out of the question. There are no more clothes, or balls, or trips. Everything is stopping. You need to understand that.”

She frowned as she tracked a rather alarming fluttering of her heart. And then she whispered, “I find it hard to believe that you’ll put on the funeral of a man you hated, but not give me the reception I deserve.”

Lane stared at her for a moment. “You know, Gin, I’m going to be completely honest here. I’ve always known you were a self-serving narcissist, but I really never thought you were stupid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If we don’t invite half the world here to pay their respects, there’s going to be talk—and it’s going to be true. I couldn’t give a shit about this family’s reputation, but the business is our only chance to get out of this mess. There is nothing but fumes keeping the BBC afloat. I’m worried about paying salaries, for fuck’s sake. If anything gets out to the press about the financial reversal, we run the risk of vendors panicking and calling accounts payable or cutting us off. Distributors could balk. The union could get riled. There is so much more to this than just a goddamn party. Visiting hours are a necessary ruse. Your reception is not.”

Gin put her hand to her throat and thought of being in the Phantom Drophead at that gas station down on River Road … and her credit cards not working. But when that had happened the other day, it had been because her father had cut her off, not because funds were unavailable.

And then she remembered her brother breaking the bad financial news to her after he’d picked her up at the police station.

She shook her head, though. “You said there was fifty or sixty million in debt. Surely there are other funds somewhere—”

“The debt is over triple that. That we’ve found so far. Times have changed, Gin.” He turned away. “You want a party, get your new husband to cut the check. It’s chump change for him, and that is why you’re marrying him, after all.”

Gin stayed where she was, watching the glass door ease shut once again.

In the silence, a strange feeling of dislocation overcame her, and it took her a moment to realize it was something she had become familiar with whenever Richard …

Oh, God. She felt like she was going to throw up.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said to the plants. “And Pford might as well start making himself useful now.”

TWENTY-ONE

The sweeper kissed along the center aisle of the stable, pushing debris ahead, kicking up a fine mist of hay particles. As Edward walked behind his broom, the muzzles of the breeding females came out of open stall half doors, snuffing at his T-shirt, bumping his elbow, blowing at his hair. Sweat had broken out across his brow and a line of it descended his spine into the loose waistband of his jeans. From time to time, he stopped and wiped his forearm over his face. Talked to Joey, Moe’s son, who was mucking stalls. Gave a stroke to a graceful neck or a smooth to a springy mane.

He could feel the alcohol coming out of his pores, like he’d been marinating in the stuff. And yet even as he was working the booze through his body, he’d had to nurse a vodka bottle a couple of times, otherwise the shaking got ahead of him.

“You’re working hard,” came a voice from the far end.

Edward stopped and tried to look over his shoulder. When his body wouldn’t allow him the leeway, he shuffled around, using the broom handle for leverage.

Squinting against a ray of sunlight, he said, “Who is it?”

“I’m Detective Merrimack. CMP.”

A strident set of footfalls came down the concrete, and when they halted in front of him, a wallet was flipped open, and an ID and a badge were presented for inspection.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions,” the detective said. “Just as a formality.”

Edward shifted focus from the display to the face that matched the laminated photograph. Merrimack was African-American, with short cropped hair, a strong jaw, and big hands that suggested he might have been a ballplayer at one time. He was wearing a bright white polo shirt with the Charlemont Metro Police Department’s crest on the pec, a good pair of slacks, and a set of leather shoes with rubber soles that made Edward think that, on occasion, the guy had to chase after somebody.

“How may I help you, Detective?”

Merrimack disappeared his credentials. “Do you want to go somewhere to sit down while we talk privately?”

“Here is good enough for me.” Edward limped over to a hay bale and let his weight fall off his legs. “There’s no one else in this barn right now. And you can use that bucket if you want to turn it over.”

Merrimack shook his head. Smiled. Glanced around. “This is some spread you’ve got here. Lot of beautiful horses.”

“You a betting man at the track?”