“I’m late for a school event, anyway.”

After an awkward pause, Lane said, “We’re going to be burying him. We were supposed to do it today, but with the weather, and some other things, it’s been delayed. How can I reach you? I’ll let you know—and you can bring your grandmother, too. Whatever you like.”

“I don’t have a phone. And I don’t know. I don’t think I’d want to go. It’s too weird. You know … I didn’t see him much. He didn’t really come around at all. You know.”

Annnnd here it was again. Another son living in pain thanks to that man.

Lane cursed in his head. “I’m really sorry. He was … a very complicated man.”

Read: asshole and a half.

“I might want to go later though.”

“How about this.” Lane leaned into the car and got the wrapper from his sausage and biscuit. “You got a pen?”

“Yeah.” The kid brought his backpack around and pulled out a Charlemont Country Day pencil. “Here.”

Lane wrote down his number. “Call me when you’re ready. And I’ll tell you exactly where he’s interred. Also, let me know when you want to come to the house.”

Yes, Easterly was his mother’s legacy, but William Baldwine had lived there for decades upon decades. If Lane were in the kid’s position, and barely knew his sire, he would want to see where the guy had worked and where he had slept, even if it was only after the man was dead.

“Okay.” Damion looked at the wrapper. Then he put it in his backpack. “I’m sorry.”

Lane frowned again. “About what?”

“I don’t know. I guess because you’ve got a mom, too. And she … he …”

“A piece of advice that you can take for what it’s worth.” Lane gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t try to own problems or faults that aren’t yours. It’s not a good long-term strategy.”

Damion nodded. “I’ll call you.”

“Do that.”

Lane watched the kid mount up and pedal off. And for some reason, when it dawned on Lane that there wasn’t a helmet on that head, he wanted to call Damion back and drive him safely to school.

But maybe he should follow his own advice. Damion had a guardian, and he had, hypothetically, ten million dollars, depending on how things turned out. Lane’s plate, on the other hand, was full to breaking, no more space left on the porcelain of his attention span and capabilities.

Getting behind the wheel, he cranked the engine and sped out onto Dorn, taking the surface road to the airport so he avoided spaghetti junction. When he finally pulled through the gate to the private jet tarmac, John Lenghe was just disembarking. Wow. The golf shorts this time were made from fabric with a pattern of grass on it. Bright green blades on a black background. Like a thousand of them.

It was a look that only someone with his net worth could carry off.

The man waved with his free hand, the other locked on the handle of a beaten-up old suitcase.

“Figured I might get stuck here,” the guy said as he came over to the Porsche and indicated his luggage. “Best to pack a toothbrush given the weather.”

“We’ve got plenty of bedrooms. And my momma cooks the best soul food anywhere. Do you like soul food?”

Lenghe put his case in the six-inch-sized backseat. “Is Jesus my Lord and Savior?”

“I like your style.”

As the man got in, he looked at Lane’s linen jacket and pressed slacks. “Really? You sure about that, son?”

Lane put the car in gear and hit the gas. “I’m not saying I could wear your wardrobe. But on you? It works.”

“You’re a smooth one, you know that?” Lenghe winked. “You well rested? Ready to play some poker?”

“Always, old man, always.”

Lenghe barked out a laugh, and as Lane took them back to Easterly, the conversation was surprisingly relaxed. As they waited at the bottom of the hill for the gates to open, Lenghe sat forward and looked up at Easterly’s white expanse.

“Just like what’s on the bottles.” He shook his head. “I have to give you guys credit. This is quite a spread.”

Especially if we manage to keep it in the family, Lane thought wryly.

The rain started to fall just as they crested the top—but Lane forgot about the weather as he saw a long black limousine parked right across the front entrance.

“Who the hell is that?” he said aloud.

After John got out with his piece of luggage, Lane put the top up and went over to the uniformed driver.

As the window went down, Lane didn’t recognize the chauffeur. “May I help you?”

“Hello, sir. I’m here with Chantal Baldwine. She’s picking up her things.”

Sonofabitch.

FORTY-FIVE

“No, I’m not using tissue paper.”

As Lizzie opened drawer after drawer of clothes, she thought to herself, Not only am I not wrapping your stuff in frickin’ tissue paper, but you’re lucky that I don’t just open a window and start pitching things on top of your limo.

“But the wrinkles.”

Lizzie cranked her head in Chantal’s direction. “Are the least of your problems. Now, come on, get working. I’m not doing this on my own.”

Chantal looked affronted as she stood over the five Rubbermaid containers Greta had brought into the walk-in wardrobe. “I don’t usually do things like this, you know.”

“You don’t say.”

Grabbing one of the bins, Lizzie began to transfer folded things—pants, jeans, yoga gear—in a steady stream. Then she moved on to the next drawer. Underwear. Jeez, she remembered going through these before, when she’d snuck in to match the lingerie she’d found under William Baldwine’s bed to something that Chantal owned.

Surreptitiously, she glanced over to the make-up table.

The blood on the cracked mirror had been cleaned up. But the glass was still broken.

She could only imagine the fight William and Chantal had had. But that was not her business. What was her biz? Getting this woman as far away from Lane and Easterly as she could get her.

It was kind of like weeding an ivy bed, she decided. Get out the bad, keep the good.