As the kid crossed his arms over his chest, there was a good deal of space between the pecs and the biceps, but that wasn’t going to last for much longer. He was going to fill out and be built strong.

God, his eyes were the exact blue of Lane’s own.

“He died,” the kid mumbled. “I read about it.”

“So you know …”

“Who my father was? Yeah.” That stare lowered. “Are you going to, like …”

“Like what?”

“Get me arrested or something?”

“What? Why would I do that?”

“I dunno. You’re a Bradford.”

Lane closed his eyes briefly. “No, I came to see you about something important. And also to say that I’m sorry your mother passed.”

“She killed herself. In your house.”

“I know.”

“They say you found her body. I read that in the newspaper.”

“I did.”

“She didn’t say good-bye to me. She just left that morning and then she was gone. You know, like, permanently.”

Lane shook his head and squeezed the ball between his palms. “I’m really sorry—”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!”

An older woman shot out onto the porch with a full head of steam up, her face twisted into the kind of rage that made a handgun unnecessary. “You get away from him! You get away—”

“Granny, stop! He’s just talking—”

As the kid got between them, the grandmother was all arms, fighting to get at Lane. “You stay away! How dare you come here—”

“He’s an heir. That’s why I came.”

As the two of them paused in their struggling, Lane nodded. “He got left the house and ten million dollars. I figured you would want to know. The executor is going to be in touch. I don’t know how much money there really is, but I want you both to know that I will fight to make sure this house stays in your grandson’s name.”

After all, there was a scenario whereby it, too, might be liquidated depending on the debt situation. And then where would this kid go?

As the grandmother snapped out of her surprise, she got right back on the hate-train. “Don’t ever come here again—”

Lane locked eyes with the boy. “You know where I live. If you have questions, if you want to talk—”

“Never!” the woman screamed. “He will never come to you! You can’t take him, too!”

“Babcock Jefferson,” Lane said as he put the ball down on the driveway. “That’s the attorney’s name.”

As he turned away, the image of that young kid holding back that old woman was carved into his brain, and God, he hated his father for new reasons in that moment, he really did.

Back at the Porsche, he got behind the wheel and headed off. He wanted to screech out, take the corners hard, hit a couple of parked cars, roll over some bicycles. But he didn’t.

He was coming out to the entrance of the development when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered it because even a telemarketer was better than the thoughts in his head.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Baldwine?” a female voice said. “Mr. Lane Baldwine?”

He hit the directional signal to the left. “This is he.”

“My name is LaKeesha Locke. I’m the business reporter for the Charlemont Courier Journal. I was wondering if you and I can meet somewhere.”

“What is this about?”

“I’m doing a story that the Bradford Bourbon Company is in serious debt and facing a possible bankruptcy. It’s running tomorrow morning. I thought you might want to comment.”

Lane clenched his jaw to keep the curses in. “Now, why would I want to do that?”

“Well, I understand, and it’s fairly self-evident, that your family’s personal fortune is inextricably tied to the company, is it not?”

“But I’m not involved in the running of the business.”

“So you’re saying you were unaware of any difficulty?”

Lane kept his voice level. “Where are you? I’ll come to you.”

• • •

The Bradford Family Estate’s groundskeeping shed was less like a shed and more like an airplane hangar. Located down below and in the back of the extensive property, it was next to where the staff parking lot was and beside the line-up of fifties-era cottages that had been used by servants, workers, and retainers for decades.

As Lizzie walked into the dim gas-and oil-smelling cave, her boots were loud over the stained concrete floor. Tractors, industrial mowers, mulchers, and trucks were parked in an orderly fashion, their exteriors clean, their engines maintained to within an inch of their lives.

“Gary? You in there?”

The head groundskeeper’s office was in the far corner, and through the dusty glass, a light glowed.

“Gary?”

“Not in there. Or here.”

She changed trajectory, walking around a wood chipper and a couple of snowplow attachments that were the size of her old Yaris.

“Oh, God, don’t lift that!” she barked.

Lizzie hurried over, only to be ignored as Gary McAdams hefted part of an engine block off the floor and onto one of the worktables. The feat would have been impressive under any circumstances, but considering the guy had thirty years on her? Then again, Gary was built like a bulldog, strong as an ox, and weathered as a Kentucky fence post.

“Your back,” she muttered.

“Is just fine,” came the Southern drawl. “Whatchu need, Miss Lizzie?”

He didn’t look at her, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like her. In fact, the pair of them worked well together: When she had started here, she had braced herself for a conflict that had never materialized. The self-professed redneck had proven to be a total sweetheart under that gruff exterior.

“So you know about the visitation,” she said.

“I do, yup.”

Popping herself up on the worktable, she let her feet dangle and watched as his callused hands made sense of the piece of machinery, moving fast and sure over the old metal. He didn’t make a big deal of his competence, though, and that was so him. From what Lizzie understood, he had started working in the fields when he was twelve and had been here ever since. Never been married. Never took vacation days. Didn’t drink. Lived down in one of the cottages.