“I’ll be right back. Shouldn’t take long.” Winter buttoned his coat and marched up the steps to the entrance. A bored maid answered his knock and blanched at the sight of him.

He removed his hat. “Winter Magnusson to see Mr. Emmett Lane.”

“Oh . . . yes, well, Mr. and Mrs. Lane are entertaining clients for dinner right now.”

“This will only take a second.”

“Can I tell him what this is in regards to?”

“Yes, you may. You tell your boss that we can discuss the inheritance of his deceased brother’s child alone or in front of his guests—his choice.”

The maid hesitated for a beat before opening the door wider. “Please come in, Mr. Magnusson. Drawing room is to your left. I’ll bring him straight in.”

And to her credit, she did just that, for Winter only waited a handful of seconds before a tall man with gray hair and shrewd eyes sauntered into a slice of lamplight illuminating the front room. “Mr. Magnusson, is it?”

“It is.”

“State your business. I’m engaged with a dinner party.”

Winter removed a folded telegram from his suit pocket. “Have a look at this.”

Mr. Lane’s scowl deflated as his eyes scanned the brief message.

“You’ll note that was wired to my attorney two hours ago from Baltimore. See, when Miss Palmer told me the story about her foster parents dying, something stuck with me that I didn’t quite understand. Why, I asked myself, would a well-to-do couple raise two children for ten years without ensuring the adoption paperwork was in order? After all, their will was thorough. Seems to me their lawyer would’ve made sure everything was up to snuff.”

“What business—”

“So I did some poking around. And as you see on that telegram there, the adoption was legal, and the state of Maryland is happy to provide a notarized letter stating that the documents are on file. The lawyer we’re working with in Baltimore is taking care of that tomorrow.”

Mr. Lane’s hand dropped. “It’s been ten years.”

“Eleven.”

“There’s no money left from that estate. It’s long been sold, the gains lost in the stock market.”

“Not my concern that you can’t manage money.”

“Whatever scam that girl’s running on you, I can assure you that my lawyer will investigate every possible legal angle to prevent—”

Winter stepped closer and spoke in a lower voice. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Lane?”

The question hung between them for a moment. “Yes, I believe I do.”

“Then you know I don’t really have a great deal of love for the law. I’m also an extremely impatient man. So we can either handle things with grace and dignity, and you can prove to me that you aren’t the conniving prick I suspect you are, or I can come back later with my men and convince you in other ways.”

The man stared at him, nostrils flaring. “What do you want?”

“I want Sam Palmer’s army footlocker. I know it was sent to you, so don’t tell me it wasn’t. The army still has a record of the shipment—military efficiency is a thing of beauty.”

Mr. Lane stared at him, mouth agape, then brushed away invisible crumbs from his suit lapels. “It’s in storage. I’ll have to dig it out.”

“I want it delivered to my place of business by Friday.” He handed Mr. Lane a business card and took back the telegram, folding it as he talked. “If it isn’t delivered by five o’clock sharp in the afternoon, I will break a finger for every minute it’s late. If I run out of fingers . . . I’ll just have to get creative. Do we have an understanding?”

The man’s face was puce with rage. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find inside.”

“Not everything is profit fodder, Mr. Lane. It is simply of sentimental value to the boy’s sister, and I want it.”

“Fine. Are we done?”

Winter’s gaze fell upon a photograph on the mantel. The man’s wife, he presumed. “One more thing. Your brother’s estate in Baltimore was appraised at twenty thousand dollars.”

“Now, you look here—I have no way of getting my hands on that kind of money. The estate was sold off for far less than it was worth, and that was a decade ago.”

“I know exactly how much you’re worth, Mr. Lane. I also know you have $5,607.02 in your account at Hibernia Savings and Loan. I want a check made out to Aida Palmer for that exact amount to be sent along with the footlocker.”

Sweat glistened across Mr. Lane’s forehead.

Winter picked up the picture frame on the mantel, removed the photograph, and handed the frame to Mr. Lane. An idle threat, but the man was a piece of shit who deserved to squirm. “Five o’clock on Friday. Enjoy your dinner.”

* * *

Winter knew something was wrong when Bo pulled into the driveway. The gate was standing open, the day’s last rays casting long shadows over the empty space where his mother’s Packard should’ve been sitting. But it was his staff lined up on the side porch that made his heart rate shift from flustered to panicked.

“What’s happened?” he said, slamming the car door behind him.

The maids fled, retreating through the screened door. Only Greta and Benita remained, and their dueling looks of worry versus titillation did nothing to calm his nerves.

“I warned her not to,” Greta said, shaking her head. “I told her you’d skin her alive.”

“What are—”

Excited shouting exploded from the street in front of the house. Bo was already jogging out front. By the time Winter raced to catch up with him, the source of the shouting revealed itself as Jonte. The reserved old bastard was running down the sidewalk, long arms akimbo as he signaled wildly to a car puttering down the street. Winter had never seen him so animated. What the devil was going on?

“Oh my God,” Bo muttered as he tore off his cap and stared at the spectacle.

Winter’s mind finally grasped what was happening. Jonte was running alongside Winter’s mother’s car, which lurched fast, then slow, then fast again. “Brakes!” the old Swede shouted. “Use the brakes before you turn, not after!”

The blood all but drained from Winter’s body when he spotted the Packard’s driver. Astrid? Mother of God, it was. His sister was squealing with either terror or delight—he couldn’t tell which—as she shifted gears and the car’s transmission made a sound that no one should ever, ever hear their car make. And Aida was perched in the passenger seat, cheering her on.

“Shit,” he murmured. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He scanned the street and saw a couple of other cars pulled over to the side, their drivers probably in fear for their lives—and he didn’t blame them. His sister was on a mad path of destruction that flattened a flower bed when she made a jerky, sharp turn into the driveway, veered erratically to the right, nearly smashing the car’s mirrors against the open gate, then came to a screeching halt a mere inch away from plowing into the back of the Pierce-Arrow.

Jonte stopped in the middle of the driveway and bent over, clutching his heaving chest. Bo ran to check on him, but the man was only winded. Probably the most exercise he’d had in years. Winter breezed past them and made a beeline for the Packard.

Astrid saw him coming and flattened herself against Aida on the car’s seat. “I only took it around the block a couple of times.”

His gaze skidded over the length of the Packard, looking for damage as he approached. He could hear the staff tittering on the porch behind him, all of them now back outside to witness Astrid’s exhibition.

“I didn’t hit anything!” she said, then something caught fire behind her eyes. “And guess what—I loved every second of it.”

A goddamn challenge. Wicked little girl . . . he wanted to . . . Christ alive, he didn’t know what he wanted. He looked at Aida.

“Go on and be mad at me,” she said, just as defiant. “It was my idea, and I don’t regret it. She did just fine. Might’ve scared a few of your neighbors, but some of them looked like they needed a little excitement.”

He counted breaths, staring down at them while the staff grew quiet.

For a moment, he didn’t know what he was thinking or how he felt. A strange numbness took root inside his chest. Looking on the scene in front of him, he expected to be reminded of the accident . . . to feel the same fear he’d felt during the weeks after, every time Bo drove him somewhere, every time Astrid got in a car. Sometimes he’d wait outside for Jonte to return with her, making himself sick with worry while he remembered the sounds of the accident . . . remembered how he’d been pinned by the steering wheel, unable to move as he called out to Paulina and his parents and no one answered.

But forcing himself to think about those things was different than the memories coming without warning. And he was forcing it, wasn’t he? As if he were testing himself.

He stared at his baby sister, trying to will his mother’s face in place of hers, but all he saw was Astrid’s rebellion. Behind her, Aida offered him a patient smile that made his insides quiver. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her; he wanted to scream at her. For God’s sake, didn’t she understand what he’d been through today? He’d been fighting for her—threatening people, pushing his lawyer, ordering up black magic from Velma to get revenge on the people who nearly killed her . . . ringing the house every few hours to check on her like a nervous mother bird.

He felt raw on the inside. Overwhelmed. Defeated.

“Did you see me?” Astrid asked Bo, a little breathless and puffed up with pride.

Winter cut a sharp look Bo’s way. If he said one single word of encouragement to her, he’d pummel the boy’s head into the pavement for pulling a Judas and siding with the girls. But his assistant just stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels as he locked gazes with Astrid. He didn’t give her a verbal approval, but he might as well have applauded—anyone could tell he was fighting back that damned smart grin of his.