He locked himself in his motel room, poured a glass of scotch to settle himself again. But only one. He had work to do.

He sat down with Eliza’s tablet and his list of names, began to search social media. He found the website for Zane’s law offices, for Emily’s creaky old bungalows easily enough. As he studied them, minutely, his rage bubbled hot. Emily’s had a Facebook page for the business, but her personal one she’d kept private. Though he’d learned a thing or two in prison, he didn’t have the skill to hack through it.

Neither of her brats had public social media, nor did Britt or Zane. But he found what he wanted thanks to Eliza’s idiot mother.

A treasure trove of photos, of family news for all to see.

Everything he needed spread out and posted by the chatty old bag. He studied a photo of the pathetic family billed as Zane’s first family cookout at his new house. Another one of Emily’s brats and Zane.

Grandsons Zane and Gabe in front of Zane’s house, with endless vomit-inducing commentary on Gabe’s interest in landscaping, his summer job. He read every revolting word in case he could use any of her blather.

He studied the house. He’d seen that house on his careful drive around the lake, the ridiculous one high on the hill.

Now he knew just where to find Zane for that private moment.

* * *

Zane shot awake when his security lights flashed on. When he rolled out of bed, Darby didn’t even stir. He knew from experience the woman could sleep through cannon fire until her internal alarm went ping.

On his way to the terrace doors, he grabbed pants, jerked them on. He caught the red glow of taillights heading down his long drive.

Somebody made a wrong turn, he decided, and realized it when the motion sensors turned on the lights. Satisfied, he went back to bed, where Darby slept like the dead.

He’d never known anyone who so perfectly fit the cliché. Once she hit the off button, she barely moved or made a sound until morning. Which made her an excellent bedmate for a chronically light sleeper.

He drifted back off only to be awakened again about an hour later by his phone. His heart leaped—another cliché, but calls at four in the morning meant trouble. So did the readout from his security company.

“Zane Walker.”

Though it was hardly necessary for Sleeping Beauty, he walked out of the bedroom while he talked to the security company about a break-in or attempted break-in at his offices. Though they assured him the local police had been notified, he went back to the bedroom, turned the lights on low to find clothes.

His phone rang again.

“Zane, Silas.”

“I just talked to my security company.”

“Yeah, somebody heaved a rock through your office window. Look, we’ve had three calls tonight like this. Must be some asshole kids.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I got a good look through the window here, and that’s the only damage I see. You’re going to want to come in, but there’s no rush. Nobody got in. I can see the damn rock lying on the floor in there, and your doors are secure.”

“Okay. I’m coming in, but I’ll pull it together first.”

“Take your time. We’ve got this.”

He dressed, got his insurance file out of his home office. Downstairs he made coffee, then made a second cup—one that wasn’t coffee, but oversweet, coffee-flavored milk. He took both up to the bedroom. He could leave a note, but hell, her eyes would pop open in about twenty minutes anyway.

The fact they did now surprised the hell out of him.

She said, “Coffee.”

“The smell of coffee wakes you out of your coma, but lights, ringing phones don’t make a dent? What are you?”

“Coffee,” she repeated, and took the one he held out. “Who called?”

“Somebody threw a rock through my office window.”

“What? No.” Her eyes blinked clear. “Oh, Zane.”

“Apparently the somebody’s having a spree doing that around Lakeview tonight. I’m going to head down, take a look.”

“Do you want me to come?” She shoved her sweep of bangs aside. “I can be dressed in like two minutes.”

“No, but thanks. It’s like Silas said, probably some dumb kids. I’ll get it sorted out, have breakfast in town.”

“Okay. Sorry, this sucks.”

“Me, too, and it does.” He leaned over, kissed her. “See you later.”

“Text me,” she called out. “Let me know what’s what.”

“Sure.”

She drank half the coffee in bed—an indulgence—while her brain woke up. Hell of a way for him to start his morning, she thought. Vandalism never made sense to her. Creative tagging on abandoned buildings she could see as urban art, but out-and-out vandalism made no damn sense.

What satisfaction or thrill did someone get from destroying someone else’s property?

She got up, and since she’d showered the night before—with Zane—pulled on work clothes. She’d top off the coffee, have some cereal, check the weather forecast.

And get an early start on the waterfall.

As she wandered downstairs, she switched on lights. After setting Zane’s coffee maker for half a cup, she checked his kitchen tablet for the weather.

Hot, humid, probable late afternoon or evening thunderstorms. Typical. Yawning the night off, she poured cereal, got out the blueberries she’d stocked for overnights.

As she started to doctor her freshened coffee, the security lights went on. Her first thought: Deer.

She sprayed regularly with her homemade organic repellent, ordered Zane and her male crew members to pee around the shrubs—another fine repellent in her estimation. She’d planted plenty of deer-resistant plants.

But you just couldn’t trust Bambi.

She disengaged the alarm, pulled open the accordion doors, and started out with every intention of chasing off the invaders.

It hit her like a guided missile, knocking her back, crashing her against the kitchen island and onto the floor.

For a moment, dazed, she imagined a ten-point buck charging in. Then she saw the man.

“So, Zane’s got himself a little whore. One built more like a boy. Figures.” He pulled the doors shut behind him. “Saw your truck. I just needed you to let me inside while he’s down in town. Thanks for that.”

He started toward her, fists curled tight. “Now, you’re going to stay down, stay quiet.”

The hell she would.

She jumped up, spun, planted a hard kick in his midsection. Instinct had her running when he stumbled back. She could get outside, lose him in the woods.

But how would she warn Zane with her phone still on the charger?

So she whirled back, heart racing, and dropped into a fighting stance. She’d stand her ground.

Eyes glinting, he charged. Fast, she thought, he’s fast, and she used his momentum as she pivoted aside, followed up with a kick to his kidneys. He pitched forward, went to his knees.

“Now you stay down.”

He came up fists flailing. She blocked a punch with her forearm, felt the force of it scream straight to her shoulder. Ducked, and came up with the heel of her hand. Felt the crunch as she broke his nose.

He got one past her, landed a blow on her still singing shoulder, aimed for her face with his left. She batted his arm away, shot a kick higher, struck his jaw. And when he reeled back, planted her boot—two hard, fast kicks—in his crotch.