Samuel T. didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, and the blond was solidly in that camp, too: From what Lane could tell in his very, very peripheral vision, she didn’t bother to even get dressed. Then again, maybe her clothes were in another part of the house. Out on the lawn. Hanging from a tree.

“Wait for me upstairs,” Samuel T. ordered.

The woman murmured something, and there was the sound of a kiss. Then the model—because she was that good-looking and that tall—sauntered by in one of Samuel T.’s business shirts.

“Hi,” she said in a voice that was like whiskey, smooth and probably heady to a lot of guys.

“Yup, good-bye,” Lane said as he ignored her and went in to join his friend.

Samuel T. was pulling a black silk robe closed and sitting up with a blurry expression. As he rubbed his messy hair and yawned, he looked outside. “So it’s morning, I see. Where has the night gone.”

“On a scale of one to ten, where one is Sunday church and ten is the last frat party you were at, how drunk are you currently?”

“Actually, I was typically drunk in church on Sundays, too. But I’d give me a six. Unless I have to take a field sobriety test. Then maybe a seven and a half.”

Lane sat down and picked up an empty bottle of Bradford Family Reserve off the floor. “At least you’re drinking the good stuff and remaining loyal.”

“Always. Now, what can I do you for? And bear in mind, I am over the legal limit, so please don’t make the request too difficult.”

Rolling the bottle back and forth in his hands, Lane eased back in the chair. “Detective Merrimack showed up first thing this morning. I called you right away.”

“I am sorry.” Samuel T. pointed to the ceiling. “I think I was with her sister at that time.”

Lane rolled his eyes but didn’t judge. He’d gone through that man-whore phase in his own life, and though it had seemed fun at the time … he wouldn’t trade any of it for what he had with Lizzie.

“They want access to the security tapes from the estate.”

“Not a surprise.” Samuel T. rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Did you allow them? Where is the security room, by the way?”

“There are two of them. A monitoring room in the staff hallway at Easterly, and then the real nuts and bolts of the system in the business center. And no, I didn’t. I told them to get a warrant.”

Abruptly, Samuel T. seemed stone-cold sober. “Any particular reason? And I’d like to remind you that I am your attorney. It may technically be for your divorce, but unless you’re actively planning to commit a crime, I can’t be subpoenaed to testify against you, so please speak freely.”

Lane focused on the label on the bourbon bottle, tracing the famous ink drawing of Easterly’s front expanse.

“Lane, what’s on the footage?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you fear is on it?”

“My brother. And maybe someone else. Taking my father alive.”

Samuel T. just blinked once. Which was a sign that he’d thought the same thing. Or maybe an indication of that blood alcohol level of his. “You talk to Edward about this?”

“No.” Lane shook his head. “I’m currently pretending that I’m just being paranoid.”

“How’s that workin’ for ya?”

“Well enough.” Lane exhaled a curse. “So can I do anything else to keep them away?”

“They’re absolutely going to come back at you with a warrant.” Samuel T. shrugged. “They have enough probable cause with what you found in the dirt. If you’d wanted to keep them away, my advice would have been to not call them in the first place.”

“Obstruction of justice much, Counselor? And believe me, don’t think I haven’t wished I’d kept quiet. Oh, and get this. They found that my father had terminal lung cancer. He was going to die anyway—which is just one more reason to support the suicide theory. Provided you forget about the piece of him that got buried under my mother’s window.”

The pitter-patter of sexy bare feet got louder and then stopped in the entryway to the room.

But Samuel T. shook his head at yet another woman. “I’m not done here.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, “is that—”

“A friend of mine? Yes, he is. Now, please excuse us.”

As the lady disappeared, Lane said, “How many are in this house?”

“Five? Maybe six? There was a cheerleading thing at the Kentucky Convention Center downtown. All of them are coaches, don’t worry.”

“Only you, Samuel T.”

“Untrue. You’ve had your moments as well.”

“So how’s the self-medicating going? Is it distracting you from what my sister is doing right now?”

The attorney looked away. Fast.

When there was only silence, Lane cursed. “I wasn’t being an asshole, I swear. I was just talking.”

“I know.” That stare swung back around. “Is she really marrying him? Wait, isn’t that a song? Is she really goin’ ouuuuuut with him …”

“Yes, they’re down at the courthouse now.”

“So it’s done,” Samuel T. said absently.

“You know Gin, though. Her version of marriage is going to be a revolving door, and not because she’s going shopping. Although with Richard and his money, she’ll be going shopping, too.”

Samuel T. nodded. “Yes. Too true.”

“But, man, do they argue.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The pair of them go at it. You can hear them through the walls, and Easterly was built to last, if you get what I mean.”

Samuel T. frowned. After a moment, he said, “You know what the real problem with your sister is?”

“She has a number of them. You want to give me some direction as to which sector of life you’re focusing on?”

“The problem with your sister …” Samuel T. tapped his temple. “Is that as flawed as she is, no one ever compares to her.”

That’s how I feel about my Lizzie, Lane thought.

Well, except his Lizzie had no flaws.

“Samuel,” he whispered sadly.

“Oh, I can hear the pity in your voice.”

“Gin is a tough case.”