by J. R. Ward
"Are you aware that there are security cameras out at the Red and Black?"
"Why are we talking about my farm? I thought this was about Miss Aurora."
"Cameras." She pointed high in the air. "Up under the roofs of the barns?"
"You know, I think it's time for me to go--"
"Sit down," she snapped as he began to get to his feet.
Edward's brows lifted. And something about her resolve must have shown in her face because he slowly sank back down into the metal chair.
Good move on his part--she had been prepared to tackle him if she had to.
"You didn't leave the farm on the night of the murder," she announced. "And don't deny it. There's nothing on the cameras to show you or anyone else did--and if you'd used the truck you said you'd taken, there would have been footage of you driving off in it."
"Do my brother a favor, would you? And tell him to stop with the theories."
"Lizzie found a knife in Miss Aurora's quarters this morning."
"She's a chef. They're known to use--"
"In a plastic bag. Behind a picture of Lane."
Edward planted his hands on the tabletop and pushed himself up. "I'm leaving. Have a nice life, Sutton--and I mean that."
Sutton let him limp over to the door and start knocking. When no one came, he called out, "Guard."
"They're not going to answer," she said without turning around.
"Why."
"Because I told them not to."
He knocked louder. "Guard!"
"Talk to me about the knife, Edward. You know something. You're protecting someone. And I get all that--it's in your nature. But here's the thing. Lane's not going to quit until you walk out of here a free man, and neither am I."
"What the hell is wrong with you people!" He wheeled around and came back over. "You've got lives to live! Companies to run--why the fuck do either of you care--"
She jumped up and met him face-to-face. "Because we love you! And when someone you love is doing something wrong, you want to stop them!"
Edward's fury darkened his eyes to almost black and the veins stood out in his neck. "You're not even a member of my family--you don't count. Mind your own damn business!"
Oh, no, you don't, Sutton thought. I'm not going to be diverted into some kind of a tit-for-tat argument.
"Did Miss Aurora kill William Baldwine?"
As she put the blunt question out there, she kept her voice level and calm. At the end of the day, this was the information she had come to get, and she was nothing if she wasn't capable of focusing. It was one of her best skills.
"Of course not," Edward said as he started to pace around, his bad leg dragging. "How the hell can you even suggest something like that."
"What about the knife, then?"
"I don't know. Why are you asking me about it?"
"You don't think if that blade is turned in to the police that it won't have your father's blood on it?"
That got him to stop. And it was a long while before Edward spoke again. "I'm getting really sick and fucking tired of telling people to leave this alone."
"So stop trying."
"Miss Aurora is dying. Let her go in peace, Sutton."
"Don't you think she wants that, too? Why else would a woman who's in an ICU become panicked and call your name? You don't think that maybe her guilty conscience is the only thing keeping her alive?"
Come on, Sutton thought at him. Talk to me....
But she knew better than to give voice to that. Edward was liable to shut up and never speak again.
"Miss Aurora loves you like a son," she insisted. "You are so precious to her. She isn't going to be able to pass if she knows you're lying to protect her."
Edward said something under his breath.
"What was that?" Sutton asked.
"It's not her I'm worried about."
--
As Edward heard the words leave his mouth, he wanted to snatch them out of thin air and shove them back down his own throat.
"What did you say?" Sutton repeated.
He had had everything so perfectly arranged. All the players separated into channels of action and communication that didn't cross. No ends to tie up. No questions to be asked.
But like actual murderers, he'd missed one little detail. Although he'd been careful to make sure the police found his trail when he'd erased the security footage from Easterly's cameras, he'd forgotten that the Red & Black's monitoring was going to be a problem.
Shit.
What else had he missed? And what if Miss Aurora survived?
Limping back over to the chair, he sat down and steepled his fingers. "Sutton..."
She shook her head. "No. You're not going to be able to charm your way out of this. I'm really pissed off at you, independent of all this. So that tone of voice is going to get you nowhere."
He almost smiled. She knew him all too well: If anger didn't work, try cajoling. If cajoling didn't, a distraction.
Naturally, kissing her came to mind, but he knew better than to attempt that when she was in this kind of mood. She was liable to knock his damn block off.
"Well?" she prompted. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Not much. Considering you've cut me off."
"Because you were going to try to feed me some line." Sutton shook her head at him. "Just so you know, Lane's going to the police. As we speak. He's heading home to Easterly to get the knife and he's turning it in. And you know what he's going to do next?"
"I don't care."
"He's going to the press. He's going to tell them everything--"
"He'll be lying, then." Why the hell didn't his voice sound stronger there? "He'll make himself look like a damn idiot."
"--to put pressure on the district attorney. Oh, and before he left the hospital?" When Edward looked way, she came across and loomed over him. "He told Miss Aurora you'd put yourself in jail."
Edward closed his eyes.
And still Sutton continued. "And you want to know what her response was?"
"No."
"She started to cry...and said she'd done it and that you were protecting her. So yeah, that about brings us up to date." Sutton went over to the door and knocked once. "Guard?"
The door opened immediately, and Sutton paused between the jambs. "My guess is you'll be out of here in two days. Three days tops. And if you want an opportunity to prove to me that you're not the coward I think you are, you'll come find me, and you'll apologize for ever sending me away."
"What then," he said bitterly. "Happily ever after? I didn't fancy you as a romantic."
"Oh, no, I was thinking straight-up raw sex. Until I can't walk right, either. Bye, Edward."
As the deputy who'd brought him down here coughed, Edward just about passed out from a combination of sexual arousal and did-she-just-say-that'itis. Meanwhile, Sutton left with her head up, her shoulders back, and that French perfume of hers in her wake.
Man, that woman knew how to make an exit.
Just his luck.
And as for the Miss Aurora stuff? All he could do was pray that everyone stopped talking nonsense and that the police stayed resolved in their current conclusions.
Because Lane was not going to be able to deal with the idea that his momma was a murderer.
That was going to kill him.
Samuel T. had not expected to leave his office so early. He had planned to work until ten or eleven at night and then stumble down the two blocks to his penthouse and crash there. After a week or so of being in court during business hours, he had a backlog of billing to catch up on, and then there was the other more pressing, but less acknowledged, reality that he was thinking about Gin non-stop.
And that meant he needed distraction.
As usual, though, the woman surprised him and changed his direction: Call him she did. Needed him, she maintained.
Great, now she had him talking like Yoda.
It was just after six as he turned in to his farm'
s drive and proceeded down the allee of trees that had been planted by his great-grandfather. With the Jag's top down, he could let his head fall back and look at the sky through the bright green leaves, the arboreal flags waving in celebration of warm weather's permanent arrival.
What the hell had Pford done now, he wondered. And was he going to need a gun.
As he pulled up in front of his farmhouse, his first thought was that the Mercedes Gin had used to take her daughter back to school was in ridden-hard-and-put-up-wet condition. Dead bugs riddled its front grille and windshield, and road dust smudged the hood and the quarter panels behind its wheels in aerodynamic patterns.
Had she driven all the way through? He wasn't exactly sure where Hotchkiss was located--as a Southern boy, those New England prep schools all seemed the same to him--but he was fairly sure Connecticut was over a thousand miles away.
You could make that round trip in a day and a half. If you never stopped.
Taking off his Ray-Bans, he left them on the dash and got out with his great-uncle's old briefcase in one hand and the stainless-steel coffee mug he had brought with him into work.
Insomnia. What else could you do other than caffeinate its effects away during the daylight hours?
Walking over the gravel, he passed under a great maple and then mounted the five steps of the wraparound porch that looked out over the rear acreage.
He stopped when he saw Gin curled up on the padded sofa that faced the pond. Dear Lord, she was in the same clothes she had been wearing when he had dropped her off at Easterly, after they had...done what they had back at his penthouse. What the hell had happened?
As if sensing his presence, she stirred, except her exhaustion was clearly too much to fight: With a sigh that sounded anything but relaxed, she fell back into her sleep.
Samuel T. was quiet as he approached her, setting his briefcase and mug down by the screen doors and continuing on into the farmhouse. He had some silly notion of putting a blanket over her, but it was eighty out, and in another few minutes, the setting sun was going to lick under the porch roof and bathe her in even more warmth.
In the kitchen, he found a lineup of notes from his estate manager covering everything from what to feed himself for dinner to phone calls she'd answered for him to a confirmation that the roof guys were coming next Tuesday. The mail stack was over in the corner, and he glanced through it. Also checked out a big hand-addressed manila envelope that he didn't bother opening.
He wanted a shower. He wanted to offer Gin a bed.
He wanted to know why she had called him to meet her out here after she'd driven for so many hours straight. Especially given that her voice hadn't sounded right when he'd spoken to her.
Loosening his bow tie, Samuel T. slid the red and gold strip of silk from under his collar and then ditched his suit jacket. He also took off his shoes and his socks. Then he grabbed two rocks glasses, filled them with ice, and tucked a bottle of her Family Reserve under his arm.
Heading out on the porch, he sat down in the wicker chair next to her and started to pour.
As if she caught the scent of her family's product, she opened her eyes and jerked upright. "Oh...you're here."
"And you're back in Charlemont." He extended a drink to her and tried to act like he wasn't alarmed. "Where is that school, anyway? Connecticut? I didn't think you could make it up and back in a day and a half."
"It's eight hundred miles and change. You can do it if you don't sleep and don't eat."
"Not the safest of driving paradigms."
"I was fine."
"Why the rush?"
Gin stared down into her bourbon and moved the ice cubes around in their bath of liquor with her fingertip. "I wanted to come see you."
"Your devotion is a surprise."
"I need to talk to you, Samuel."
Samuel T. frowned and eased back in the chair, the weave creaking as it accepted the shift in his body weight. "What about?"
As a lawyer who worked trials, he was used to reading into the vagaries of an expression and extrapolating what an eyebrow twitch meant, or how the corner of the mouth could reveal a lie...or a truth. When it came to Gin, however, his skills were disarmed because of his own emotions.
And he was seriously concerned. If she stayed with Pford, he had a feeling she was going to not only regret it, but be in danger. And although it was going to kill him to sit on the sidelines while she got hurt, Gin Baldwine was well known for making choices that took her into chaos, instead of away from it.
She sat up and rearranged that peach dress. The color usually looked fantastic on her--then again, what didn't? But she was as worn out as that Mercedes parked out front looked, her skin too pale, the tight line of her lips suggesting she was upset and trying to hide it.
"This is hard for me." She closed her eyes. "Oh, God, Samuel, please don't hate me."
"Well, I've tried that in the past and I've never made it stick."
"This is different."
"Look, if you want an annulment, I can help you and I'm not going to judge--I told you that before." He thought of her coming forward and telling him that she loved him with a desperation he hadn't respected because he'd assumed it was just one more game. "And I'm not volunteering to replace him, if you're just looking for a bank account. But if you want more than that? We'll see--"
"This is not about Richard."
He frowned. "Okay."
Gin went still. To the point where she barely seemed to breathe. And then he noticed the tears that were silently falling from her eyes.
Samuel T. sat forward. "Gin, what's going on?"
As she sniffled and rubbed at her nose, he eased to the side and took out the handkerchief he always kept in his back pocket. "Here."
"Thank you." She put the bourbon aside and mopped up. "I don't know how to begin."
"A dark and stormy night always worked for Snoopy."
"This is not funny."
"Clearly."
She took a shuddering breath. "Do you remember...way back when I was in school and I took some time off? I was pregnant then, as you know."
"Yes."
"And I had Amelia."
"Yes."
"Do you remember about nine months before I had her where I was?"
"With your professor," he said dryly. "You were sure to tell me. With no small amount of pride, I might add."
"Amelia was born in May. Do you remember?"
"Gin, will you just come out and tell me whatever it is--"
"She was born in May." Her eyes lifted to his. "And nine months before, do you remember where I was? It was September."
He threw up his free hand. "Why are you going in circles here? I don't have any clue what you were doing way back then--"
"Fine," she said sharply. "Do you recall where you were that September?"
"Oh, of course, 'cuz I can remember fifteen years ago--"
"Sixteen. Sixteen years ago."
As an alarm started to go off way down at the base of his skull, the ringing sound drowned out his thoughts--but not his memories. Sixteen years ago. September. It had been right before they'd gone back to school...
...and they had met up in Bora Bora.
They had fought. And had sex. And gotten drunk. And had sex. And been sunburned. And had sex.
Samuel T. swallowed even though his mouth went dry. "What are you saying."
Even though he knew. He suddenly knew.
"Please don't hate me," she said roughly. "I was young and scared. I didn't know what to do--"
Samuel T. got to his feet so fast, bourbon spilled all over his hand. "Say it." He raised his voice. "Say it!"
"Amelia is yours. She's your daughter."
He grabbed for the collar of his shirt, even though it was already open. And then the anger came, hard and fast.
"You fucking bitch."
--
As soon as Lane heard back from Sutton, he returned to Easterly, leaving Lizzie with Miss Aurora and the doc
tors. He parked the Rolls in the rear by the garage, and then he entered the mansion through the kitchen--or tried to.
When he went to open the door behind the screen, it was locked.
So strange. For all his life, Easterly had always been accessible. Then again, there had been plenty of people inside the house, no matter the hour. Now? With Jeff at work, and his mother upstairs with a nurse in the middle of a twelve-hour shift? Doors had to be bolted.
Fortunately, there was a house key on the Phantom's ring.
The hinges on the screen creaked as he propped the thing open with his hip, and then he was opening the solid door and taking a deep inhale of the specific scent of Miss Aurora's kitchen: lemons and Danish and astringent.
His momma had cooked and cleaned in the space for so long, he imagined it would always smell like this. Or at least he hoped it would.
He went directly to her quarters, and had to stop as he walked in. The sight of that pair of BarcaLoungers was like a punch to the chest. It seemed like two seconds ago that he'd arrived here from Manhattan and she had cooked him his favorite soul food. And by all that was holy, he would have killed to sit just one more time side by side with her, their feet up, their plates on matching tray tables that folded away when they were through, the TV chattering off in the corner.
But that was no more, he thought sadly.
Snapping into action, it was easy enough to find the picture of him and Jeff from their U.Va. graduation, and the knife was exactly as Lizzie had described it: clean and in a plastic bag.
Dimly, he was aware of his heart starting to pound.
Miss Aurora, what did you do? he wondered.
Closing her door behind himself, he went over to the Wusthof butcher-block holder by the stove.
Yes, it was the one that was missing.
Turning the blade in its bag over and over in his hands, he looked out the windows that faced the garage and the courtyard.
Miss Aurora's red Mercedes was parked grille in to the business center, exactly where it had been since he had arrived home. And it was on an impulse that made him sick to his stomach that he put the knife down, went back into Miss Aurora's suite, and got her car keys. Before he headed outside once again, he found a pair of nitrile gloves under the sink and snapped them on.
It seemed appropriate that there was a rumble of distant thunder as he walked across to Miss Aurora's car, and he glanced up. Storm clouds were gathering over Indiana and about to follow the normal track of weather that would bring them to Charlemont.
