A soft voice at the door startled them both. "Have you finished, Sabrina?" asked a sympathetic nurse in a pale pink uniform.

Bree nodded and dropped the cloth back into the bowl. "I suppose."

The nurse walked in and began to fuss around the bed. "Is there any family we can call for you to take you home?"

Bree shook her head, but Franki stood and grasped her hand. "I'm her family. I'll look after her."

Bree gave her a watery smile. "Yeah. I guess you are."

"Damn right." She wrapped an arm around Bree's shoulders and led her from the room. Bree hesitated

briefly in the doorway and watched in silence as the nurse pulled the sheet up over Lydia Hampstead's face. "I couldn't even grant her her last request," she muttered as the shroud settled into place.

"What was that?" Franki urged Bree down the hall, away from her mother for the last time. "She wanted to talk to Sloan. Desperately. The doctor thinks her agitation was probably a symptom ofthe tumor that they found growing at the base of her brain, but...she was so earnest about it. She wasupset, but she seemed completely lucid. I didn't think she was confused at all."

They reached the elevator and Franki pushed the button.

Bree drew a shaky breath. "But he had already left the hospital, and then she slipped into the coma. I

just-" Franki squeezed her arm. "Don't be ridiculous. You did your best." Bree merely nodded. "I suppose." "You have to stop supposing and start believing." The elevator bell dinged and they stepped into the car. "What am I supposed to do now, Franki? Tonight I find out horrible things about Sloan's mother, and-and now this." She pressed a finger to her temple. "Am I just supposed to go home and curl up inbed and go to sleep like nothing's happened?" "Well, I know one thing. You're not going home alone." "Will you stay with me tonight?" "No," said Franki flatly.

Bree's feet stopped abruptly. "What do you mean, no?" They arrived on the main floor and Franki grasped Bree's hand, coaxing her onward like a motherleading a weary child. "Sloan will be staying with you tonight. We're going back to the house to get himright now."

"No. We can't. He wanted to be alone. He was so upset. And it was so important to him. I can't just-"

"Of course you can," Franki said firmly. "Your mother just died, for chrissake. Sloan loves you. He'll want to be with you. He'll want to be there for you."

"He never said he loves me."

"That means nothing."

"It does so. It means everything."

"It just means he hasn't said it. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel it."

They walked in silence until they stepped out the front doors of the hospital. The breeze was light, the night air cool and fragrant with the scent of rain and damp earth. A million stars glittered, and a thousand crickets chirped.

"I miss her already," whispered Bree. Franki looked at her and thought she looked almost as frail and used up as her mother had near the end. "But maybe she's with Dad now. At least she's got someone."

"So do you," murmured Franki as she led the way to the car. And she meant it. Sloan was going to be there for Sabrina whether he liked it or not. Franki intended to see to it. "So do you."

Vance Elliott rolled over and tried to put a little distance between himself and his wife. Lois's noisy nighttime respirations were a constant source of irritation for him. If she would just lose a little weight, her snoring would likely melt away along with all those unsightly pounds. But he knew better than to suggest that to her.

He sidled a little further away, thankful that his budget allowed for the comfort of a king-size mattress. He and Lois had given up the "marital bed" ritual years earlier. They didn't even cuddle anymore. He found no comfort in the warmth of her flaccid flesh. He took his comfort elsewhere, when and where he could get it. He didn't know if she knew, and honestly he didn't care. They stayed together out of habit, and because it made simple fiscal common sense. They shared a roof. They'd stopped sharing their lives years ago.

He closed his eyes and shuddered. Sleep had come easily earlier in the evening, but about twenty minutes ago he had awoken for unknown reasons. He'd felt a strange sense of foreboding that he could neither explain, nor shake off.

Maybe a little fresh air would help. Maybe if he opened a window...

He was just considering the pros and cons of setting his bare feet on the cold hardwood floor when he sensed a presence in the room.

"Good evening, Mister Elliott," hissed a voice in his ear. "Fancy meeting you here."

Vance's entire body went still when he felt something cold and hard being pressed against his neck. He tried to peer out of the corner of his eye and identify his assailant, but all he could make out was a dark smudge in the blackness.

Vance swallowed. "What do you want?"

"Oh, your head on a platter would suffice." The blade pressed a little more firmly against his throat, and Vance broke out into a cold sweat. "But perhaps an explanation or two would do. For now."

"Explanation?" whispered Vance.

Then the face came closer and he recognized those eyes. He almost screamed. "Jonathan!" he whispered.

But that couldn't be right. He blinked to clear his mind, and when he opened them again he understood his error. "Sloan."

"Very good. I'm glad you haven't forgotten me."

"No," squeaked Vance, as he felt the subtle bite of a finely honed edge. "I couldn't forget you."

"And, obviously, you haven't forgotten my father either. That's a comfort...I suppose."

Vance licked his lips. "Can we talk about this downstairs?"

"Afraid of disturbing the walrus' sleep? I can't believe you actually care for her. I can't believe you actually care for anyone, considering everything."

"Please," pleaded Vance, even as an impotent rage kindled in his gut. "If you're going to kill me, do it and get it over with. Otherwise let's go talk in my office."

"Kill you now?" He could hear the tremors of rage in Sloan's voice, and he feared he might have gone too far. "Don't tempt me, Elliott. I need you alive."

"So then, let me up."

Sloan didn't move immediately. He held the knife and Vance could hear the rapid, shallow breathing of a man on the edge of fury. He also smelled a hint of the whiskey Sloan must have been drinking just before his arrival. He wasn't drunk. His voice wasn't slurred and his tone too sharp, but he had tried to numb himself, and Vance suspected it hadn't worked.

"All right," whispered Sloan at last. "Downstairs."

And at last the blade was withdrawn, but then Vance was dragged roughly from the bed. He struggled to his feet and reached for his robe. He barely had time to slip it on before the tip of the blade was pressed to his back again. He felt its prick as Sloan followed him out the door and down the stairs.

Vance opened the door to his study and stepped inside with a vast sense of relief. This was the one area of the house where he felt completely in control, and he needed to feel that right now. He flicked on the light, and heard Sloan close the door behind them.

He had just set out for the security of his desk when Sloan grabbed his robe and jerked him back.

"Not so fast," growled Sloan.

And then Sloan shoved him into one of the visitors' chairs. Vance resented the rough treatment, but at the moment he didn't seem to have much choice.

"What are you doing?" he asked as Sloan rounded his desk and plopped down in the plush executive's chair.

Sloan cocked his head to the side as he considered the gleaming edge of the blade he still held. "Simply maintaining the upper hand. The last time we talked in here I cowered like a frightened child. That's not going to happen again."

"You cowered because you had something to hide," said Vance with as much smugness as he could muster. "I don't believe that has changed."

A slow sly smile spread across Sloan's face. "You don't think so?"

Vance frowned. Sloan's demeanor was unsettling him, fraying the usual air of casual arrogance that he wore like a cashmere cloak. "Are you ready for your secrets to be made public?" he taunted. Sloan's smile never wavered. "I don't know." He leaned back in the chair and traced a gloved finger over the blunt edge of the knife. "Are you?"

Vance felt another surge of foreboding. "How did you get in here?" he whispered.

Sloan tapped the knife on the blotter. "Oh, it seems my father and I have much more in common than I ever dreamed possible."

"What does that mean?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Vance. You're lousy at it." And before Vance could catch his breath Sloan continued, "I broke into your office over at Lakeside House."

"You broke in?"

Sloan smiled and leaned forward on the desk, propping his chin on his leather-clad fists. Vance had another fleeting image of Jonathan, but shook it off quickly.

"Yes," replied Sloan.

"B-but why?"

Sloan frowned. "You sound a little upset by that news. Why would that be?"

"How else am I to react to the news that someone I know and trust invaded my privacy and stole from me?"

"I took nothing of yours."

"That's beside the point." Vance tried to glare his disdain, but the contempt seemed to bounce off Sloan like pellets off an armored tank.

"You value law and order, do you, Vance? Is that what I'm hearing?"

Vance studied Sloan, trying to gauge him, but at the moment Sloan's eyes were about as readable as a set of ancient hieroglyphs. And they looked just about as old. "Yes. And I like to protect what's mine."

Sloan's lips curled into a sneer, but the expression was fleeting. "And was Jonathan Carver your friend?"

"Yes," said Vance without hesitation.

"Then why the hell did you kill him?"

Sloan watched in silent, stoic fascination as the color drained from Vance's face.

"You're insane," whispered his father's best friend. "Jonathan shot himself. I loved him like a brother. I don't know what in the hell you're talking about."

"I'm talking about all the seedy little secrets that you and my father and Russell and Joe shared. I'm talking about the...tangent your little business went off on in the later years." Sloan felt his blood pressure rise with each word, and he idly wished for another shot of Crown Royal to calm his nerves.

Vance stared at him, silent and wary. And when, at last, he reentered the conversation he did so cautiously. "You mean the drugs."

"Yes." Sloan matched his tone, measure for measure. "I mean the drugs. I mean the kilos of heroin and cocaine that sifted through Lakeside House like flour through a sieve. I can't believe you got away with it this long."

Vance drew a long, fortifying breath. "A small town auction house that deals in precious antiques and collectibles?" His fingers tapped nervously on his thigh. "The buying trips and shipments made an ideal cover. And the anonymous bidding suited our distribution network perfectly. It was all out in the open, leaving the money as clean as new-fallen snow. They never suspected because no one would be crazy enough to exchange money for drugs in such a visible forum." His eyes dropped to the floor, as if he actually felt a trace of shame. Sloan didn't believe it for a moment. "The police never looked at us twice."

"You're referring to the buying trips Perry went on, right? My father never had anything to do with it. None of it."

"No," whispered Vance. "No, he didn't. Most of it was set up after..."

"After his death," finished Sloan.

"It was a tragedy, Sloan. But I don't see how you can hold me responsible. I don't see how you can blame me. It was his decision. I hardly held the gun to his head."

"Perhaps not." He suppressed the urge to latch his hands around Vance's throat. "But I do I blame you, Vance. Your schemes were the ultimate cause of my father's death." He pointed a shaky finger. "And I hold you responsible. From what I read tonight you were the driving force behind it all. You were the one who pushed and prodded and finally forced your friend to choose between his conscience and his wallet. If it weren't for you he wouldn't have had to face that dilemma. And he wouldn't have come to the decision that he was beyond salvation."

Sloan flopped back in the chair, exhausted. And Vance stared at him.

"I hate to break it to you, Sloan, but your father was hardly a saint. You don't know about his...sideline, and the other services he provided for Lakeside House."

"Oh yes, I do. But thievery and trafficking in drugs that destroy lives and kill people are two different things. They are to me, and I know they were to him."

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked.

"You found the safe."

Sloan nodded.

"You broke into it, and got all that from the information in those ledgers?"

"And from the letter my mother wrote me."

Vance's eyes went as wide as dinner plates. "She did tell you." He sprang from his chair and every muscle in Sloan's body tensed. "God dammit. I knew it. Somehow she found out what we were doing, and that was when everything fell apart. She threatened me. And then she threatened to tell you. I didn't really think she'd do it, because it would cost her too much. But obviously I was wrong."

Vance paced the room like a caged tiger.

"She never liked any of it. She put up with Jonathan's antics because she loved him, and because he loved what he did. She was always a weak link. She was so beautiful and Jonathan loved her so. She was his conscience, you know. If it hadn't been for her he might have considered it. He wouldn't have been nearly so tormented. If there's anyone to blame for his suicide, it's her."

"How dare you." Sloan ground out the words from between teeth that had clenched so hard his jaw ached. "How dare you blame her. She was your friend. They both were. She deserves better after all she did for you."

Vance's stance remained belligerent. "After all she did for me? She abandoned me, Sloan. Just as much as she abandoned you. I loved her. I loved her more than I've ever loved anyone. I gave myself to her, body and soul, and she repaid me by slitting her wrists!"