"Or the link could be any one of the other dozen people who were in the room that night. The video lasted for several minutes," she continued. "Erica and Ravino talked to other people, including that man with the ring that looked familiar to you. Maybe your father wasn't meant to be the focal point of that video."

"Of course he was. Otherwise no one would have given me that disc. They wanted me to see that Ravino and my father knew each other." Dylan stopped at a red light, hitting the steering wheel in frustration. "What makes me crazy is wondering whether going to my father is exactly what they want. I feel like a puppet.

Someone else is pulling the strings, and I just keep dancing to their tune."

"That's a good point. Maybe we shouldn't show up on your father's doorstep."

"I have to. I need to know one way or the other if my father is the puppet master. You'd better come in with me. I might need a witness-or someone to stop me from killing him."

"I'm more worried about someone trying to kill you. Erica is dead, Dylan. You could be next on the list. And if your father hates you . . ."

"That's why I want to take him by surprise. He's not going to shoot me in his own home. Not with his girlfriend around, or his housekeeper."

"I hope you're right."

Dylan turned off the busy commercial streets, driving through a neighborhood of tall, stately homes and mansions. He pulled up in front of a two-story Mediterranean-style villa with an ornate iron fence surrounding the property. He'd often felt like a prisoner behind that fence, and it took everything he had to park the car and turn off the engine. He'd been there only once in the past few years, and the last time was to swipe his father's Metro Club card. He'd deliberately gone at a time when his father would be at work. The housekeeper, Mrs. Rogers, who'd always had a soft spot for him, had let him in on the pretense that he wanted to get some old photos of Jake and himself for the wedding.

His father had probably figured out by now that he'd used his membership to get into the club, and it was possible Mrs. Rogers wouldn't let him in the door. But he had to try. He had to confront his father. And he gave himself a mental kick in the ass for even hesitating. There was nothing Richard Sanders could do to hurt him now. They were both grown men. His father no longer had a physical advantage.

"Beautiful houses often hide ugly secrets, don't they?" Catherine murmured.

"Yes, they do. I want to do this, but . . ."

"I know," she said, an understanding gleam in her eye. "It won't be easy. But you're good at the tough stuff, Dylan. You can do it."

"I don't suppose you have any insight as to what will happen inside?"

"Sorry. I guess we'll both find out at the same time."

"Which is now," he said decisively. "Let's go before I change my mind."

"I've never been very good at meeting the parents," Catherine said as they got out of the car and paused on the sidewalk. "I never know what to say, how to impress them. And what I do say usually comes out wrong and stupid, and I embarrass myself."

"This isn't that kind of meeting, Catherine."

"Are you good at meeting the parents?"

"I don't meet parents. In fact, I don't usually ask if the woman I'm with has parents."

"Really? That's the first question I ask a guy. I guess I always thought one day I'd meet a man with a wonderful family, and they'd become my family, and everything would be good again." She cast him a curious look. "You never thought that way? Never wanted to replace your bad experience with a positive one?"

"Too big a risk that the next experience would turn out just as bad." Dylan started down the path, moving more quickly with each step. She sensed he was gathering strength for the confrontation ahead.

Dylan rang the bell, which pealed loudly through the house. A moment later an older woman opened the front door. She wore black slacks and a white button-down blouse, and her hair was sprinkled with gray. Her dark eyes filled with surprise when she saw Dylan. "Oh, my goodness. What are you doing here?"

"Hello, Mrs. Rogers," Dylan said. "Is my father home?"

"Yes, but he won't want to see you. You have to go." The woman cast a quick look over her shoulder. "He's still upset that you snuck in here a few weeks ago and used his membership card for the Metro Club. He almost fired me for letting you in. I need this job, Dylan. I'm too old to get another one. And your father, for all his faults, pays me well."

"Don't worry. I'll tell him you tried to keep me out." Dylan pushed past the housekeeper. "Where is he? In the den?"

Catherine followed Dylan into the entryway, offering the housekeeper an apologetic smile, but the woman's anxiety was palpable. She twisted her hands together in agitation. "Dylan, this isn't a good time. Your father has been very stressed lately. He's been working long hours, getting telephone calls even after he comes home, holding late-night meetings. It's a busy time for him."

"Why? What's he working on?"

"I don't know. His business."

"Does Senator Ravino ever call here?'

"What the hell is going on?" Dylan's father demanded as he stomped into the entryway, interrupting their conversation.

Even though she'd seen him in the video, Catherine wasn't prepared for the size of the man. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a gray cashmere sweater over a pair of black trousers. There was a dark fire of rage in his eyes when his gaze settled on his youngest son. He didn't even glance in Catherine's direction. She felt almost invisible as the energy centered on the two men. Mrs. Rogers slid out of the room, obviously not wanting to be part of the conversation.

Dylan straightened, but he was still a few inches shorter and many pounds lighter than his father. He raised his chin in the air, threw back his shoulders, and said, "I want to know what your connection is to Joseph Ravino."

"That's none of your business," his father replied sharply. "Now get out."

Dylan stood his ground. "Not until you answer my question. I saw a video that shows the two of you together at the Metro Club. You were in an intense conversation."

"We're both members of the club; there's no crime in that. Or are you trying to frame me like you did Ravino?"

Catherine watched Dylan's father, hoping to catch some sign in his expression that would tell her if he was speaking the truth, if he really thought Dylan had set up the senator. But Richard Sanders was impossible to read, his emotions hidden behind a very cold facade.

"I didn't frame him. Ravino killed his wife. I just helped the police figure it out."

"You think you're some big man now?" Richard challenged. "You're not. You're a worthless piece of shit, and you always have been. Now leave, or I'll call the police and have you thrown out."

"I'll go when I'm ready. Do you know Erica Layton? And I'd suggest you think about your answer before you give it."

Something flickered in the older man's eyes, Catherine thought. Mr. Sanders did know Erica. But how close was their relationship? Did that flash of guilt have to do with Erica's death or something else?

"Erica Layton worked at the Metro Club," Dylan added. "She was a hostess in the back room."

"I know that," Dylan's father replied. "So what?"

"She had an affair with the senator. She revealed his motive for murdering his wife. And now she's . . . disappeared."

"Why should I care? She's nothing to me."

Before Dylan could reply, a very attractive woman came down the stairs. She was dressed in white cropped pants and a button-down pink blouse, her blond hair styled away from her face. His father's girlfriend, Catherine presumed. The woman appeared to be a good fifteen years younger than Richard. She had a cool, classic beauty, the perfect accessory for a rich and successful man. But perhaps Catherine wasn't giving them enough credit. Maybe they actually cared for each other, although it was hard to believe that the hard man standing in front of her was capable of caring for anyone.

"What's going on?" the woman inquired. "You're Dylan, right? I recognize you from the news."

"And you must be Rachel Montgomery," Dylan said.

"How do you know her name?" Dylan's father interrupted.

"I keep up."

"You stay out of my business."

"Richard, maybe we should offer Dylan and his friend something to drink," Rachel said.

For the first time Dylan's father looked in her direction. Faced with the sharp point of his gaze, Catherine felt a sudden desire to flee, but she couldn't leave Dylan alone, not here, not with the bully of his childhood. Instead Catherine moved over to Dylan, slipping her hand into his. She didn't know if he welcomed her support or not, but his fingers tightened around hers and he didn't let go.

"I'm Catherine Hilliard," she said when Dylan couldn't seem to find his way to an introduction.

"Richard Sanders," the man said gruffly. He'd been too well trained not to be polite to a stranger.

Now that he realized she'd witnessed his conversation, he seemed discomfited by her presence. He probably preferred to keep his hateful attitude toward his son a secret.

"Would you like a drink, some coffee?" Rachel asked. "Where on earth is Mrs. Rogers? I'm surprised she didn't offer you anything."

"We're fine," Dylan bit out.

"They're just leaving," Richard added.

"In a minute," Dylan countered. "You want me out of your business, then stay out of mine," he said to his father.

"I don't give a damn about anything that concerns you. Why would I? You were a terrible son, a huge disappointment. Nothing has changed."

Catherine felt her hands clenching into fists as she was assailed with the urge to punch Richard Sanders right in his stuck-up face. "Dylan is not a disappointment," she interjected. "He's an incredible man, and you're lucky to have him as a son. If you don't know that, you're a fool."

Richard spluttered with shock, his face turning red. "How dare you-"

"I dare because this is a good man, and you should see him for who he is."

"So now you've brought a woman to fight your battles for you," Richard said with a sneer in Dylan's direction. "How very impressive."

"At least I have a woman who's willing to stand by me. My mother walked out on you."

"She didn't walk out. I threw her out."

"That's not what you said before," Dylan countered.

"It's what happened."

"Why?" Dylan asked. "Why would you throw her out?"

"That's my business," Richard retorted. "And it was over a long time ago. Now, we're done. Get out."

"I will find out what happened to my mother. Hell, I may even find her and ask her myself," Dylan said. "But first I'm going to figure out how you're connected to Erica Layton and Senator Ravino. If you're involved in Erica's disappearance, you'd better get yourself a lawyer."

"You're the one who will need a lawyer if you come back here, Dylan. As far as I'm concerned, I no longer have two sons. I only have one."

Dylan uttered a harsh, bitter laugh. "Actually, you don't have any. Jake doesn't care about you. He didn't invite you to his wedding. Did you notice that?"

"He invited me. I chose not to come," Richard said. "But you and I-we're through. You're an adult. Live your life and stay out of mine."

Richard turned on his heel and walked down the hall. A moment later a door shut.

"I'm sorry. He's been a little tense lately," Rachel said nervously, darting a quick look after Richard. "I'm sure he didn't mean what he said. He's always talking about how proud he is of his sons."

"Son, maybe," Dylan said. "Why has he been so stressed? What's going on with him?"

"Some problem at work, I guess. He didn't say, but he hasn't been sleeping well."

Catherine wondered if Richard's insomnia had something to do with framing his son for murder.

"Who's the woman you were asking Richard about?" Rachel inquired.

"Erica Layton. Has Richard ever mentioned her?"

Rachel shook her head. "I don't think so. You'd better go before he comes back out here."

"I'll go," Dylan agreed. "You should consider leaving, too. He's not a good man. Sooner or later he'll show you his true colors."

Dylan let his words sink in, then opened the front door and motioned for Catherine to precede him. She muttered a quick good-bye to Rachel and left the house. She could feel Dylan's tension as they walked to the car. She knew he was putting on a front, and he had to be hurting inside. He'd just never admit it.

When they reached the car she gazed back at the house and saw a curtain flutter in a downstairs window. Someone had been watching them leave-Rachel or Dylan's father? Was Richard Sanders as innocent, as uninvolved as he claimed? Or was the recent stress he'd been suffering due to an elaborate plan to get his son out of his life once and for all?

"Are you okay?" Catherine asked. "Maybe I should drive."

"I'm fine. The last thing I want to do is sit in the passenger seat and twiddle my thumbs."

"You could play with the radio," she said lightly.

Dylan didn't crack a smile, just got behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. She took the passenger seat, flipping the locks down once they were inside. Despite Dylan's desire to drive, he made no move to start the car.

"I think he could have done it," he said, his voice bleak. The encounter with his father had taken a lot out of him. It was the one relationship he couldn't fix, couldn't make work no matter how hard he tried. And she suspected that even though he hated his father, there was still a part of him that wanted his father's love, something Dylan would never admit.

"He could have killed Erica-maybe not himself, since he wouldn't want to get his hands dirty, but he could have hired someone to do it," Dylan continued. "He has plenty of money."

"What's his motive?"

"She knew too much about him. Perhaps he's tied to Ravino. They could be working together."

"Or not," Catherine suggested. "I watched your father. He did know Erica. I saw him twitch when you said her name. But he didn't look guilty. He appeared more nervous than anything."

"Because he killed her."

"I don't know, Dylan. I think it's hard for you to judge your father fairly because he's so horrible to you."

"And what the hell were you doing sticking up for me?" Dylan asked, turning to look at her with irritation in his eyes. "I didn't need you to get into the middle of a fight that didn't concern you."

"I couldn't just stand by and let him say those things about you."