“Start on the hanging things,” she ordered the woman. “Or I’ll strip them off that rod on a oner.”

That got Chantal moving, her manicured hands opening the glass doors and taking garments out hanger by hanger. But at least she made a pile to be carried from the suite.

Lizzie was on the third bin when Lane strode into the dressing room.

Chantal turned, looked at him … and put her hand on her lower abdomen.

Yeah, yeah, we all know you’re pregnant, sweetie, Lizzie thought to herself. Like we would forget?

“These are my things,” Chantal said with self-importance. “And I shall remove them.”

Like she was Maggie-frickin’-Smith—

Okaaaay, maybe someone needed a Snickers bar, Lizzie decided. And it wasn’t yonder beauty queen.

After all, there was no reason to get bitchy. It wasn’t going to improve the situation and God knew there was enough of that under this roof already.

“Yup,” Lane said, coming in. “You really should get them out of my house.”

He walked over to one of the glass-fronted closets, threw the doors open, and put his entire upper body into the line-up of hangered clothes. When he reemerged, his strong arms were full of colorful, expensive swaths of silk, taffeta and organza.

“John!” he called out. “We need an extra pair of hands in here!”

“What are you doing!” Chantal rushed forward. “What are you—”

A stocky older man came in wearing … wow, an absolutely amazing set of golf shorts there. Who knew you could make clothes out of grass?

“Hey, there,” the guy said with a flat Midwestern accent and a wide-open smile. “How can I help?”

“Grab some and carry it down to the limo.”

“Sure thing, son.”

“You can’t! You won’t! I can’t—”

“Oh, and this is my fiancée, Lizzie.” Lane smiled in her direction. “I don’t think you’ve met her before.”

“Fiancée!” Chantal stamped her stiletto. “Fiancée?”

As she stamped her actual foot again, Lizzie thought, Wow, she’d always assumed that move was reserved for Friends episodes.

“This is my friend John,” Lane said to Lizzie. “You remember, the Grain God?”

“Hi.” She offered the man a wave. “Thanks for helping.”

“I’m a farmer, ma’am. I’m not afraid of work!”

The guy looked at Chantal, who was still going firecracker, and then he stepped around her, opened the next compartment, and strong-armed about two dozen full-length gowns.

It was like he was hugging a rainbow.

As the two men left with the clothes, Chantal followed after them, tripping over the padded hangers that fell to the floor in their wakes, a trail of sartorial bread crumbs.

Lizzie smiled to herself and went back to her packing.

Man, it felt good to clean house.

Outside of Gin’s bedroom, some kind of commotion was making its way down the corridor.

She was too busy trying to find her cell phone to care, however. Last time she had used it … the pilots. She had used it when she’d been in the cockpit of Richard’s jet. Had she lost the thing?

It wasn’t on the bed stand. Nor under the bed. Nor on top of the decorative bureau.

And it wasn’t in her purse.

Distantly aware of a rising panic, she went into her dressing room. The mess she’d made at the make-up station was tidied up—and for a moment, she stopped to think of what might have been involved in the cleaning of it all. There had been powder everywhere on the rolling table, streaks of eye pencil, tubes of lipstick and liner left out. So, in addition to putting everything that was still usable back in its place, Marls must have had to get glass cleaner or something, paper towels … who knew what.

Even the carpet underneath, the white carpet, was pristine.

“Thank you,” she whispered, even though she was alone.

Walking over to the open shelves where she kept her collection of Gucci, Vuitton, Prada, and Hermès bags, she tried to remember what she’d taken with her—

The sound of ringing snapped her head around.

Tracing the ding-a-ling-a-ling across to the hanging sections of the room, she opened the panel closest to the noise … and pulled out a pink, white, and cream Akris silk coat.

She found the phone in the pocket and answered the call even though whoever it was didn’t register in her contacts.

Maybe it was God, letting her know what to do next.

After all, it was entirely conceivable that Miss Aurora might have that kind of pull.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Baldwine?” a female voice said.

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Jules Antle. I’m the house parent on your daughter’s floor at her dorm?”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” This explained the 860 area code. “Are you. looking for me to make arrangements to pick up Amelia’s things?”

Shit, Mr. Harris had left. Who could handle—

“I’m sorry? Pick up her things?”

“Yes, I shall have someone collect her things immediately. Which dorm is she in again?”

“The semester’s not over with.”

“So you would prefer us to wait until the other students leave?”

“I’m—please forgive me, but I’m not following. I called to see when she was coming back. I took the liberty of speaking with her professors, and if she needs to take her finals from home after the study break, she’s more than welcome to.”

Gin frowned. “Exams?”

Ms. Antle, or Jules, or Mrs. House Parent, slowed her speech down, like maybe she thought Gin had cognitive difficulties. “Yes, the tests before summer break. They’re going to be taken soon.”

“But why would she … I’m sorry, it was my understanding that Amelia was asked to leave school.”

“Amelia? No. Why would she have been? In fact, she’s one of our favorites here. I could see her being a proctor when she’s a senior. She’s always helping people out, generous with tutoring, always there for anybody. But that’s probably why she was elected class president.”

Gin blinked and became aware that she’d turned such that she could see her own reflection in one of the mirrors by the hairdressing chair. Dear Lord, she looked awful. But then she’d fallen asleep with all her make-up on, so that although her hair wasn’t that much of a tangle, her face looked like an evil clown with haunted eyes.