“This is bullshit,” Lane spat. “I’m not playing this game with her—”

“This isn’t a game. And unless you make an appearance down at that jailhouse, you’re going to be considered a fugitive.”

Lane looked over at Lizzie. She was sitting up, in full alarm, braced for bad news.

All at once, he remembered passing Chantal in that Mercedes as she had left Easterly. Her face had been covered with the glasses, that black veil.

For all they knew, she’d pulled a Gone Girl and done the stuff to herself. He hadn’t put the woman in true pathological territory before, but maybe he’d underestimated the crazy.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m coming in. I’ll be at your farm in twenty minutes.”

Hanging up the phone, he heard himself say, “I have to go.”

“Lane, what’s happening?”

The dishes from their nice dinner were still on the table, the cushions of the sofa still dented from his having laid back and stroked her legs.

And yet those moments, which had happened mere minutes ago, were gone, gone, gone.

“I’m going to take care of it,” he told her. “I’m going to make it all go away. She’s lying. Once again, she’s lying.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Stay here—and don’t turn on your radio. I’ll call you as soon as I can and explain everything.” Marching back over to Lizzie, he took her face in his hands. “I love you. I need you to believe that. I need you to remember that. And I’m going to take care of this, I swear on my momma’s life.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“It’s all going to be okay. I promise.”

With that, he left her house.

At a dead run.

FORTY-TWO

As Lane’s Porsche roared off into the gathering darkness, Lizzie sat where he’d left her for a time. All she could think of was that none of them should be surprised. Chantal Baldwine was as tough as they came, and there was no way that woman was going to lose her social status and access to that Bradford lifestyle without putting up a tremendous fight.

So whatever this was might well just be an opening salvo.

Getting to her feet, she picked up their plates and thought, wow, not how she’d expected the evening to end.

But maybe he would still be back. He’d left his bag.

Damn you, Chantal.

Back in the kitchen, she put everything in the sink, pumped some dishwashing soap on top of the mess, and fired up the hot water.

She was about to get her hands wet when her cell phone rang over on the counter.

“Thank God,” she said, leaping across the tile. “Lane? Lane, can you tell me what—”

“Lizzie? Are you home?”

“Greta?” There was a whirring noise over the connection, like the woman was behind the wheel of her car. “Greta? I’m having trouble hearing you?”

“—home?”

“Yes, yes, I’m home. Are you all right?”

“—on my way”—buzz, chirp, whrrrrr— “there in ten minutes.”

“Okay, but I don’t want to finish working on that limb now. It’s nearly dark, and honestly, I’m not in the mood—”

“—off your phone.”

“What?”

The metaphorical seas parted and the German’s voice came through loud and clear: “You need to turn off your phone.”

“Why? And I will not.” Lane might call. “Look, I’m not really in the mood for company and—”

There was a loud chirp and the connection cut out entirely.

“Great.”

Putting the phone in her pocket, she went back to the sink, washed the dishes and the silverware, dried the lot of it, and put everything away.

She was out in the living room, sitting on the sofa again, nervously thumbing through the latest issue of Garden & Gun, when headlights flashed across the front of the farmhouse and the cobblestones of her drive crackled.

Getting to her feet, she pulled her shirt down and double-checked her hair wasn’t tangled. No sense looking like she’d rolled out of bed with Lane.

Especially because most of the sex they’d had had been on the rug in the hall. And on the stairs. And standing up in the shower.

Opening the door, she—

As her partner got out of the Mercedes station wagon, Lizzie could see Greta’s face was ashen and her shoulders bowed. And she looked like she was wiping away tears under those tortoiseshell glasses of hers.

“Oh, my God,” Lizzie said. “Is it one of the kids?”

The other woman didn’t answer, just came up on the porch and walked right into the house. Lizzie followed, closing them in.

“Greta?”

The woman paced around. Then finally stopped. “Were you with him last night?”

“Excuse me?”

“Lane. Just … were you with him? For the whole night?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Chantal is accusing Lane of beating her up badly enough to put her in the hospital.”

“WHAT.”

And that was when it came out: Chantal. The hospital. The police. The media.

Lane.

When Greta finally fell silent, Lizzie threw out a hand blindly as she backed up and fell into a chair. “I …”

“That man is a lot of things,” Greta said, “but I’ve never known him to raise a hand to a woman.”