It was hard to tell who was talking back to the other more.
Clearly, a fair fight.
When the kid finally shut the hell up, he turned around, like he was considering a bid for an escape--and that was when he saw Max.
God, Max knew that rebellion so well, those crazy eyes, the cruisin'-for-a-bruisin' routine. He'd done all that. But when your dad beat you with a strap at least once a week, sometimes because you'd done something, and sometimes because he just felt like trying to break you again, you did one of two things. You got quiet or you got crazy.
He'd chosen the latter.
Edward had chosen the former.
Ramsey came out from the back. "He'll see you. C'mon."
As Max got to his feet, that kid looked at him like he was some kind of status to aspire to, and Max understood. If you got swolt and you got ink, if you wore a scowl and had a mean light in your eye, you were defending yourself against not so much the people standing in front of you...
...as the one you had left behind.
The one with the strap and laugh, who'd enjoyed your pain because it had made him feel stronger.
"Max?"
"Sorry," he said to Ramsey. "I'm here."
He had the vague impression of a number of corridors, and a checkpoint with bars, and then he was down a hall with multiple doors that had caged lightbulbs above them. Two were lit. Three were not. He was led all the way down to the last lit one.
Ramsey opened the door and Max hesitated. There was something about Edward that always made him feel like an ass--and not because, when they were growing up together, he'd frequently, in fact, been an ass.
The thing was, Edward had been their leader, their chief, their king. And Max just the jester with psychotic tendencies.
With all that in mind, he forced himself to walk in with his head up--but he shouldn't have bothered. Edward wasn't watching the door. He was sitting with his hands folded on the table and his eyes on his fingers.
Ramsey said something and closed the door.
"So I understand you're leaving." Edward glanced up. "Where are you headed?"
It was a while before Max could reply. "I don't know. Not here. That's all that matters."
"I can totally understand that."
Max exhaled his tension and went over to the seat opposite his brother. When he tried to pull the stainless-steel chair out, it didn't budge.
"They're bolted to the floor." Edward smiled a little. "I gather that some of my fellow inmates have trouble expressing their emotions. Without throwing things, that is."
"I would fit in here."
"You would."
Max squeezed himself into the spot, his knees and thighs bumping into the bottom of the table. "This thing's bolted down, too."
"Trust no one."
"Isn't that from The X-Files?"
"Is it?"
There was a period of silence. "Edward, I need to tell you something before I go."
Annnnnnd this is why they called it morning sickness, Lizzie thought as she slowed the four-wheeler down and leaned to the side to dry-heave. For, like, the fourth time.
But she was determined to get around her full property.
The good news? At least the fresh air, and the sun on her face, and the scent of the grass and the good earth, were a balm to her soul. And what do you know, the wide open sky and the solitude helped recast the night before, making what had struck her as a grotesque manipulation of the legal system when it had happened seem more like just a brother wanting to protect his sister by keeping her out of the papers.
Plus there was Amelia to think of.
As Lizzie straightened and took a sip of water from her bottle, she looked down at her lower belly. If she had a kid out there in the world? Attached to the Bradford name? The last thing she would want was the family in the news and all over social media--especially with regard to what had gone down in that marsh.
For godsake, Amelia might be coming home for good in a few days, but even if she weren't in Charlemont, everywhere she went, she would be known as the kid whose mother had...yadda yadda yadda.
Horrible for a child.
Lizzie hit the gas and continued in a fat loop that stuck to her fence line. And as she bumped along, searching for downed trees, limbs, and fence posts, she thought about Amelia through the years.
The poor girl didn't even know who her father was.
It was never spoken of.
Surmounting the rise that was in the far northern corner of her farm, Lizzie stopped and turned in her seat. Looking down over the land she owned free and clear, that she had bought and paid for on her own, she realized...holy crap, she just might have someone to leave all of this to.
Would her child know and love the earth as she did? Want to sink vital hands into the good soil and cultivate from seeds things that fed people and made a house smell and look beautiful? Would he or she be an artist? Perhaps a painter who would find inspiration here...or a writer who would ply many the occupied solitary hour at a keyboard in the front living room.
Would her son be married up here on this hill? Would her daughter keep horses in the barn down there?
So many questions. And so many projections.
Not one of which included Easterly or any of the Bradford lineage.
Perhaps her child would go into the business? Learn about bourbon and its history, and become passionate about its careful tending and the honoring of long-standing tradition.
Or...dear Lord, what if she ended up with a Gin? She didn't think she could live through that.
Images from the night before came back to her, and then there were others from when Lane and Richard Pford had gone at it in the hall at Easterly. Lane had been so worried about his sister, so protective. And then there was his preoccupation with Edward. His concern over Max. His love for Miss Aurora and even his addled mother.
And on top of that there was that young boy, Damion, his father's illegitimate son by the family's old controller. Lane was even taking care of him, even though he didn't have to, making sure that the boy was treated fairly.
Lane was scared to be a father. But with everything Lizzie knew about him, he was going to be a good family man--because he already was one.
Putting her hand on her stomach, she decided she was going to tell him about the pregnancy. One, because God forbid if she lost the baby, as sometimes happened before the second trimester, she wanted him to at least know what was inside her while it was there and alive. And two, because he deserved what Amelia's father, whoever he was or had been, had been cheated out of.
The Bradford family had a checkered history with fathers and their children.
And she sure as hell was not going to be a part of it.
--
Edward had never particularly gotten along with his brother Max. He had learned, however, not to take this personally. Max did not appear to get along with anybody all that well. So when Ramsey had come to announce that the black sheep of the family was pulling out of Charlemont and wanted to see him right before his exit?
Something told Edward that this was the last time he was going to see the guy.
"What's wrong, Max. What do you think I've got to hear."
Max rubbed his face. Stroked his beard. Looked as if he was going to vomit.
There even seemed to be a sheen of tears across those pale gray eyes, something that was utterly unexpected.
Struck by an impulse he could not deny, Edward reached across and squeezed a huge forearm. "It's okay. Whatever it is, it's all right."
"Edward--" Max's voice cracked. "Edward, I'm so sorry."
Had he found out about the suicide attempt?
Edward sat back and sorely regretted that silly attempt at self-harm. He had meant it only in the abstract. As soon as he had seen his blood flow from his wrist, he had known that he would not take the coward's way out.
A mistake, not to be repeated. But surely, Max wouldn't have heard about that.
Oh, wait, Edward thought.
In lightning succession, he added and subtracted the equations of both of their lives and came to the only sum total that made any sense in light of this emotional overflow--in a man who fought tooth and nail to remain untouched.
"I already know," Edward murmured.
Max sniffed and frowned. "Know what."
"That William wasn't my father. That's what you've come to tell me, isn't that right?" As his brother looked shocked and then nodded, Edward took a deep breath. "Well, shall I say that I had my suspicions. I guess you're saying that it is true?"
"Goddamn, how did you know?"
"He tried to have me killed in the jungle," Edward said dryly. "Hardly a parental move even by his very low standards. More than that, though...he always looked at me differently. He wasn't kind to you three, but there was a special, nasty light in his eye that he reserved for me and me alone. He literally hated the breath in my lungs, the beat of my heart--it went that deep, and it was there from the start. My earliest memory was of him glaring at me."
"I'm glad he's dead."
"So am I."
"I overheard them talking one night. That's how I found out--and also why I left Charlemont when I did. I should have told you, but I didn't know what to do."
"It's okay. It is not your fault or your problem." Edward leaned in. "And a piece of advice, if I may? You're still running from him, I get that. But you may want to reconsider the effort. To escape from a trap that doesn't actually imprison you is not logical."
Max's bleak eyes drifted off. "He's in my head. I can't...I have nightmares, you know. Of running through that house. He's behind me and I know what he's going to do when he catches me, and he always catches me. He always...caught me."
"He's not on your heels anymore, Max. He just isn't. And hopefully you'll come to believe that someday."
It was a long while before Max looked up again. "You were a really good brother, Edward. You took care of me when I didn't deserve it. Even when I was--you know, fucking up shit and all out of control, you always stood up for me. You always did me right. Thank you."
Edward closed his eyes. "You deserved better than you got. We all did. And we're all crippled--my version just happens to show on the outside."
That was a lie, actually. He was ruined in his head, too. But his brother had enough on his conscience.
And yes, maybe Edward should take his own advice about letting the past go. File that under easier said than done, however.
"I never thought I would say good-bye to you," Max murmured. "Or any of the three of you. But for some reason...I had to see you before I leave for good."
"I'm hardly one to criticize you for cutting ties."
"You're the only person, then."
"The others just don't understand." Edward shrugged. "It doesn't matter, though. Just do you, Max. Find your freedom however you can, and live your life as best you're able. We earned that right. Earned it the hard way in that house with him."
Clearing his throat, Edward grunted and stood up. As his body swayed, he had to catch himself on the table.
"Are you going to be okay?" Max said, his eyes worried. "In the big house, things are rough."
"I'll be fine."
As he held his arms open, Max got to his feet and came over. When they embraced, Edward held on only for the briefest of moments, and then he had to step back.
"Did you really kill him?" Max asked.
"But of course I did. Can you blame me?"
Edward limped over to the door, but paused before he banged on it. Without looking back, he said, "One thing, Max. Before you go, I want you to do something for me--and this is a non-negotiable, I'm afraid."
When Lane finally got a text from Lizzie, telling him that she was coming over to Easterly, he raced back to the mansion from the Old Site and beelined for their bathroom. He wanted to see her all clean-shaven and smelling fresh, an un-wrinkled polo and pressed shorts on, a smile pinned to his face.
In other words, the opposite from how he'd been the night before.
When he'd roped her into lying by omission to the police to cover up a shooting.
Hell, maybe he just should tell her that he'd disclosed everything to the cop after she'd driven off in her truck--and point out that it wasn't his fault that his family name had gotten him off the hook.
Yup, 'cuz that was going to help his case.
In the bathroom, he ditched his clothes into the hamper. They had been clean when he had put them on, but his body had not been, so he wasn't going to re-wear them post-shower.
After he turned off the central air-conditioning, so he didn't get a chill when he got out, he started the water running.
Towel. He needed a towel.
Turning to the tall, thin closet, he opened things up and fished around for--
A box dropped onto the floor, something falling free of it onto his bare foot. Bending down, he picked up...
A pregnancy test.
"I actually came to tell you. That's why I'm here."
He straightened and looked to the door. Lizzie was standing in between the jambs, her face sun-kissed as if she had been out in the good air, her blond hair down on her shoulders, her body looking...strong. Healthy. Powerful.
He blinked and glanced back at the box.
And then he snagged a bath towel and wrapped it around his hips. "Are you...when did you...are you...okay?"
As a thousand things went through his mind and his heart, it was a miracle he could speak at all.
"It's why I've been sick," she explained. "You know, in the mornings."
He could tell she was holding back and trying to read where he was. And he wanted to respond to her, to reach past his shock and disbelief and find her in the midst of the announcement.
When that failed, he tried to make himself feel something.
Anything.
God...pregnant? She was having a baby, his baby?
Lizzie cleared her throat. "I, ah, I just took the test the day before yesterday. It was on a whim. I didn't actually think I was. When it, ah, came back positive, I was shocked, and I thought, you know, I thought I would wait and test it again and see. But--"
"That's why you asked me if I'd ever thought about being a father."
"Yes, I mean, we haven't discussed it before. And now, you know, we really have to."
"Yes," he said. "We should...talk about it."
Lane went over and sat on the edge of the tub. Say something. You fool, say something, she's waiting for you to--
"I'm keeping it," Lizzie said roughly. "No matter what happens to you and me, I'm keeping this baby."
He recoiled. "What? Of course you are. And--we're getting married."
"Are we? Still?"
Lane stared up at her remote face. "Yes, of course."
Lizzie frowned. "I'm not Chantal. I didn't do this to get you down the aisle, and the last thing I want is a husband who is operating out of responsibility, not love."
With a sudden rush, Lane burst up, crossed the distance between them, and pulled her against him. Closing his eyes, he realized why he hadn't been able to say anything, think anything, feel any sort of emotion.
He was paralyzed by a fear so deep, it went down into his soul.
--
When Max reached his destination, he left the Harley on the street again, and as he entered an open atrium that went up a number of floors, he looked around for some kind of orientation or--
Welcome desk. Perfect.
He wanted to be welcomed, thank you very much. So he could get this over with.
As he approached the desk, the little old white-haired lady on duty smiled at him. "Welcome to University Hospital. How may I help you?"
He was slightly surprised she was so open with him. Then again, she had cataracts clouding her eyes, so she probably couldn't see him very well.
"I'm looking for the ICU. A friend--a person who's--she's family, really. Aurora Toms? I'm here to visit her."
&
nbsp; Because that was what Edward had asked him to do.
"Let me see if I can find her for you." There was some slow, even tapping on a keyboard. "Why, yes, she's up on the fourth floor. We only let family members see patients on that unit, though."
"I'm family. I'm...one of her sons, actually."
It felt so strange to claim that. And yet it was right.
"Oh, I'm sorry. That's my misunderstanding, then. Use those elevators, right there. Check in with the nursing station and they will escort you to her room."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Up on the fourth floor, he did as he was told and was directed down and into a room that was like a pre-coffin: Everything was barren, sterile, lifeless--motionless and quiet except for the blips on the monitors. And as he approached the bedside, Miss Aurora seemed so small...a shrunken remnant of the powerful woman he recalled, swaddled like a babe in soft white and blue blankets. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was not right, the inhales a fast jerk, the exhales these long deflations.
Staring down at her, he took a moment to ponder his own end, whatever it looked like--probably violent, he decided--and he also thought about things like God and Heaven and Hell.
When he finally spoke, it was in a rush. "I'm sorry about that time that I switched all your sugar in the canister with salt. And for when I tried to bake that cake made out of cow flops. Also, that whole latex paint in the milk carton thing. And for when I spoiled the eggs in the sun and put them back. And for the lettuce incident. Oh, and the worms."
No reason to get into the specifics of either of those last two.
"I wish you weren't going."
He was surprised when that came out of his mouth--because it was the truth, and also because what the hell did he care? He was also leaving.
"I worry about Lane, you know." He sat on the foot of the bed. "He's stretched pretty thin, and he always went to you to feel better. He really needs you now."
Max looked down at his boots and knew that she would have disapproved of the scratches on them. Actually, she would have disapproved of a lot about him now, but she'd still have loved him. Not as much as she loved Lane, it was true--still, Miss Aurora would have hugged Max and fed him and smiled at him like he was being stupid, but couldn't help it.
"Do you remember when I decided to ladder up the back of the house to the roof? I really thought strapping those two sliding rungers, one to another, was going to work. I can't believe I only broke two of those gas lanterns. Man, Father was pissed. Or how about when I put moonshine in the punch bowl at the Christmas party, and that woman threw up all over the Secretary of State--you know, I would have been great on the Internet if they'd had it back then. Or how 'bout when..."