“Inspired by Roy and Hallie’s argument,” she reminded him. “What’s more comforting than mac and cheese? I had to tell you even knowing it would stir up bad memories.”

“Food as a security blanket?”

She caught the tone, recognized irritation. “It wasn’t meant to be patronizing, Zane. I wanted to do something to balance out having to upset you. And instead I’ve pissed you off.”

“What pisses me off, Darby, is the fact you clearly felt you had to tiptoe up to telling me you landed a client who happens to live in that house.”

She actually felt her spine stiffen, her temper simmer up toward boil. “It wasn’t an insult to your manly balls. The tiptoeing was as much, maybe more, for me. I felt guilty, right or wrong, I felt guilty profiting over something that hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt me, and my balls are insulted. I wouldn’t have come back to Lakeview if I couldn’t handle it, and both my balls and my brain are aware someone lives in that house. And if the people who do came to me on a legal matter, I’d handle that. Why wouldn’t I?”

Darby took a moment herself, then said two words. “Traci Draper.”

He started to speak, felt the pin jab the air out of his righteous insult. “Yeah, well, you pointed out I was stupid about that, so you should’ve known you were being stupid about this.”

“Sounds like a wash to me, and you got mac and cheese out of it. I don’t mind fighting, but if you want really stupid, it’s fighting because somebody had concerns for your feelings.”

“We’re not fighting.” At her long, slow stare, he blew out a breath. “We were disputing, and apparently we’ve settled the dispute.”

She smirked. “Lawyer.”

“Guilty. Look, I spent some time hating the house. I even drew a picture of it—and I can’t draw for shit—in my journal back then. Drew it surrounded by the nine circles of hell.”

“You read Dante as a teen?”

“I read everything. It was one of the most surefire ways to go somewhere else for a while. I got over hating the house, or mostly. You working there isn’t going to bother me. Don’t let it bother you.”

“Then I won’t.”

“See? Dispute settled. I’m having more of this.” He piled more mac and cheese on his plate. “You?”

“Half that.”

“How would you feel about leaving some of your stuff here instead of hauling your clothes in and out in your duffle?”

It took her off guard, shot her off balance. One minute they’re “disputing,” and the next he’s making room in his closet.

“I…”

“And I could leave a few things at your place,” he continued in the same easy tone, “for those rainy days when I bring takeout after work and give you a hand with painting.”

“I really thought, that first time, this was just going to be about good, easy sex.”

“It is, just not only about.”

No, she thought, it wasn’t just about. He’d already given her a key and the security code. For convenience, and leaving some clothes ranked the same, didn’t it? Convenient.

Why make a big deal?

“Who does the laundry?” she demanded.

“Hmm. I could say you do it at your place, I do it here, but you’re here more than I’m there, so those aren’t equitable terms. We take turns.”

“I can agree to that. I’ll bring some stuff to leave tomorrow. God.” She shoved her plate away. “I don’t care how good it is, I can’t eat any more.”

“Tell you what, we’ll get these dishes out of the way, then walk this off. We’ll stroll around here and you can tell me the names of stuff that’s blooming even though I’ll never remember.”

“You’ll remember eventually.”

He smiled, polished off his mac and cheese. “It’s sweet you really believe that, darlin’.”

Sipping wine, Darby considered. They’d had their first fight, sort of, resolved it. They’d agreed to leave personal items at each other’s places.

And he’d called her darlin’ for the first time in that gorgeous High Country drawl.

No doubt, absolutely none, they’d just entered the next phase, whatever that turned out to be, of their relationship.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Graham paid cash for his motel rooms on his careful trip from Raleigh to Lakeview. He used the free Wi-Fi and Eliza’s tablet to search for information about Emily, about Detective Lee Keller, about his own—obviously inept—defense attorney, the prosecutor, the judge who’d presided over his case.

All of them, every one, had played a part in ruining his life, in humiliating him. He would ruin theirs, every one.

Unfortunately, the judge had died six years before. So Graham could only gain satisfaction from imagining him rotting in hell.

The prosecutor had retired and moved to Solomons Island, so he would have to wait. His own attorney, also retired, still lived in Asheville.

So, soon for him.

He knew, because Eliza had told him on one of her visits, that his whore-bitch of a sister-in-law had married the dirty cop. He knew the cop was now chief of police in Lakeview, and they had two sons.

So many ways to hurt them. As he sat in his motel room, with the TV on to alert him if and when his own face flashed on-screen, he imagined all of them.

He thought setting that old relic of a house on fire, with all of them inside, would serve.

He considered Dave Carter, the busybody asshole neighbor. Oh, he’d played a part. You play, Graham thought, you pay. In careful block print, he added Dave Carter to the list in the notebook he’d bought at Walmart.

Maybe a terrible accident. Cut the brake lines on his car. He could look up how to do that—you could find out anything on the internet.

Then, of course, most importantly, there were the spawn who’d betrayed their own father. The father who’d put a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, food in their bellies.

The father who’d given them life. The father who would take those lives, take them with his own hands.

He read over the list of names, again and again. Meticulously wrote down any and all information he remembered or could find about each and every one.

He detailed every grievance he had against them, and those filled line after line after line.

Before he slept, he whipped himself through fifty push-ups, a hundred crunches, rotated to squats, lunges. Every morning he repeated the routine, using the long list of grievances to drive his body through.

When he slept, he dreamed of himself in surgery, performing miracles only God could match. Like God, he’d bring judgment against those who’d betrayed him.

When he woke, he didn’t shave. He hadn’t shaved for three days now, and felt the deepening scruff helped mask his face. He’d combed product through his hair to cover the gray, and would continue to do so as he let it grow.

Along with the notebook, he’d bought a ball cap, sunglasses, cheap tennis shoes, jeans, T-shirts. He’d learned a few things in prison—and blending, not bringing attention to himself, was key. Just as switching the license plates—twice now—on his car was key.

Driving into Lakeview had him shaking with anxiety and excitement.

They’d changed things. A stoplight where none had been. Different stores, restaurants. It infuriated and disoriented.

He had to pull over to get his bearings, to breathe through what he recognized as—he was a fucking doctor after all—an anxiety attack.

Sweat popped out on his face; his heart hammered. His vision blurred, doubled for an instant. Then it snapped clear when he saw Zane striding down Main Street as if the son of a bitch owned it.

He’d let his hair grow to faggot length, broadened in the shoulders, put on more height, but he knew his own goddamn son when he looked at him. And it took every ounce of willpower not to leap from the car then and there and beat the bastard to the ground like he deserved.

That had to wait, he reminded himself. That had to be a private moment.

He watched Zane climb steps to a porch, walk into a building. He considered going in after him—it could be a private moment—but he saw movement at the large front window. A woman, vaguely familiar, Zane joining her so they were framed in the glass.

His offices. Thought he was a big shot now, but Graham knew the truth. Spineless bastard couldn’t make it in Raleigh so he’d come slinking back to Lakeview.

And in Lakeview the betrayer would finally meet justice.

Calmer, he drove into Lakeview Terrace. Changes there, too, he noted. They’d put in a playground for people who couldn’t keep their children at home where they belonged. He saw kids on swings, slides, kids biking—many without parental supervision.

Disgusting.

He drove to his home—no longer the largest in the development, as several status-seeking neighbors had added bonus rooms over the garages, or sunrooms, covered decks.

Again he pulled over, this time to consider the house. His house. The strangers who lived in it were nothing more than squatters. Back when the world was sane, he could have had them evicted with a snap of his fingers.

Now he’d become the interloper. Because of Zane.