The man’s chin went up. “Are you attempting to bribe me? Bribe us?”

“Or I can shut the board down. Your choice.”

“There are bylaws—”

“You know what my father did to my brother, correct?” Lane leaned in once more. “Do you think I don’t have the same contacts my old man did in the States? Do you honestly believe I can’t make things very difficult for the lot of you? Most accidents happen in the home, but cars can be tricky, too. Boats. Planes.”

Guess his Kentucky Fried Tony was coming out again.

And the truly scary thing was, as he said the words, he wasn’t sure whether he was bluffing or not. Sitting here, where his father had sat, Lane found himself feeling perfectly capable of murder.

Abruptly, the memory of falling from the bridge, of watching the water come at him, of being in that hinterland between safety and death, returned to him.

“So what is it going to be?” Lane murmured. “A raise or a grave?” Steadman took his sweet time, and Lane let the man stare into his eyes for as long as he wanted.

“I’m not sure you can promise either, son.”

Lane shrugged. “The question is whether you want to test that theory out on the positive or the negative, isn’t it?”

“If that article is true, how are you going to get the money?”

“That’s my problem, not yours.” Lane sat back. “And I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“What’s that?”

“My father’s ring finger was found buried out in front of the house. It’s not been released to the press yet. So don’t kid yourself. It wasn’t suicide. Someone killed him.”

There was a little throat clearing at that point. And then good ol’ Steadman said, “When exactly would we be receiving payment?”

Gotcha, Lane thought.

“Now, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said to the man.

Jeff took his breakfast upstairs in Lane’s grandfather’s crib, and he was on the phone the entire time. With his father.

When he finally hung up, he sat back in the antique chair and looked out at the grass of the garden. The flowers. The blooming trees. It was like a stage set for the Carringtons back in the eighties. Then he picked up the copy of the Charlemont Courier Journal he’d stolen from downstairs in the kitchen and stared at the story.

He’d read it first online.

After that, when he’d gone down to snag some coffee and a Danish, he’d asked Miss Aurora if he could take the physical copy. Lane’s momma, as she was called, hadn’t looked up from whatever she’d been chopping at the counter. Get it out of here, was all she had said.

Jeff had pretty much memorized every word, each number, all the pictures of the documents.

When a knock sounded, he said, “Yes?”

Lane came in with some coffee for himself, and even though he’d shaved, he looked like shit. “So—oh, yup,” the guy said. “You’ve seen it.”

“Yeah.” Jeff put the goddamn thing down. “It’s a hatchet job. The problem is, nothing is misrepresented.”

“I’m not going to worry about it.”

“You should.”

“I just bought the board.”

Jeff recoiled. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I need you to find me two point five million dollars.”

Putting his palms up to his face and holding in a curse, Jeff just shook his head. “Lane, I don’t work for the Bradford Bourbon Company—”

“So I’ll pay you.”

“With what?”

“Take a painting from downstairs.”

“No offense, but I don’t like museums and I hate representational art. Everything you have was done before the advent of the camera. It’s boring.”

“There’s value in it.” When Jeff didn’t give a response, Lane shrugged. “Fine, I’ll give you a piece of my mother’s jewelry—”

“Lane.”

His college roommate didn’t budge. “Or take the Phantom Drop-head. I’ll deed it to you. We own all the cars. How about my Porsche?”

“Are you … insane?”

Lane indicated all around them. “There’s money here. Everywhere. You want a horse?”

“Jesus Christ, it’s like your garage sale’ing—”

“What do you want? It’s yours. Then help me find that money. I need two hundred and fifty grand each for ten people.”

Jeff started shaking his head. “It doesn’t work like that. You can’t just divert funds on a whim—”

“There is no whim here, Jeff. It’s about survival.”

“You need a plan, Lane. A comprehensive plan that immediately reduces expenses, consolidates function, and anticipates a possible federal investigation—especially with that article out now.”

“Which brings me to my second reason for being here. I need you to prove that my father did it all.”

“Lane—what the fuck! Do you think I can just pull this stuff out of my—”

“I’m not naive and you’re right. Law enforcement is going to come knocking after that article, and I want to present them with a clear path to my father.”

Jeff exhaled. Cracked his knuckles. Wondered what it would feel like if he struck his forehead with the desk. A couple of hundred times. “Well, at least that looks like a no-brainer.”

“That’s the beauty of all this. It just came to me. My father is dead so it’s not like they’re going to dig him up and put him behind bars. And after everything he pulled, I’m not concerned with preserving his memory. Let the bastard go down in flames for everything, and then let’s move forward with the company.” He took a drink from his mug. “Oh, which reminds me. I e-mailed you what Lenghe sent me on the WWB Holdings companies. It’s more than we had and yet not nearly enough.”

All Jeff could do was stare at the guy. “You know, I can’t decide whether you are incredibly entitled or simply so desperate you have lost your damn mind.”

“Both. But I can tell you that the latter is more material. It’s hard to be entitled when you can’t pay for anything. And as for your compensation, as far as I’m concerned I’m in a fire-sale situation here. So back up a truck and load the damn thing to the roof. Whatever you think is fair.”