The air in the garden was crisp, smelling of wet earth and pine.
Brady paced back and forth on the gravel driveway, kicking stones. He lit a cigarette, his hands shaking slightly.
Ambrose leaned against the hood of his Rolls-Royce, watching him. He had a cigarette of his own, the cherry glowing bright in the night.
Brady stopped pacing. He looked at Ambrose.
"You think I'm a monster, don't you?"
Ambrose exhaled a plume of smoke. "I think you're a man who prefers comfortable lies to uncomfortable truths."
"I thought it was a rehab!" Brady shouted, throwing his hands up. "I signed the papers because the brochure showed horse riding and group therapy!"
"You didn't check," Ambrose said. "You didn't visit. Not once in three years."
Brady flinched. "She was toxic, Ambrose! You remember! The drugs found in her car? The way she embarrassed us at the gala?"
Ambrose looked toward the dark windows of the guest house. "I remember."
He paused.
"But what if we were wrong?" Ambrose asked quietly. "What if the drugs weren't hers?"
Brady stared at him. The ash from his cigarette fell onto his expensive shoe. "Don't start with conspiracies. Kaleigh found the drugs. Kaleigh wouldn't lie."
Ambrose didn't answer. He threw his cigarette onto the wet ground and crushed it with his heel.
He walked around to the trunk of his car. He popped it open.
Inside was a black tactical medical kit. It was military grade.
He pulled it out.
"Here," Ambrose said, holding it out to Brady.
Brady reached for it. "Thanks. I could use an aspirin."
Ambrose pulled it back. "It's not for you."
Brady froze. "Then who...?"
Ambrose whistled. His head of security, a massive man named Jesse, stepped out of the shadows.
"Take this to the guest house," Ambrose ordered. "Give it to the assistant. Tell her it's for the burns. It has lidocaine and silver sulfadiazine."
Brady watched Jesse take the kit and walk away.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Ambrose," Brady warned. "Kaleigh is your fiancée. That is her sister. The sister who tried to steal you."
Ambrose got into the driver's seat of his car. He looked at Brady through the open window.
"I'm not doing this for Clarisa," he lied smoothly. "I just don't want a cripple in the wedding photos. It looks bad."
He started the engine. The V12 roared to life.
Brady stood in the driveway, watching the taillights disappear. He looked at the guest house. He felt a knot of dread in his stomach that no amount of whiskey could dissolve.
