Elizabeth had not begrudged them this night. It had been a great night. The party perfect. And Jeff had been the son any parent revered. She had been anxious to please her mother and quietly spirit away the overzealous brother who’d had a bit too much.

Elizabeth reached for the radio, switched stations, and turned up the volume. The moon was full and the stars bright.

She considered herself more grown up than most fifteen-year-old girls. A step ahead of the rest. She cranked the radio.

And when she’d first spotted the headlights on the horizon, she gave them little thought. She let the music wash over her. She approached a small two-lane bridge, knowing she was less than fifteen minutes from home.

However, as the two cars approached the bridge, the other car switched into her lane. For a moment she thought she’d imagined the move but quickly realized the other car was headed right toward her.

She laid on the horn, startling Jeff.

“What the hell, Elizabeth?” he shouted as he wiped the drool from his lip.

Elizabeth gripped the wheel, her gaze now darting wildly to the left and the right for an escape route. If they made it to the bridge, they’d collide.

She laid on the horn again.

“Shit!” Jeff shouted.

She had seconds to decide but those seconds dragged like minutes. Closer and closer. Fifty feet from the bridge.

Left was a stream, right trees.

The other car barreled toward her, gaining speed.

Jump or dive.

Her heart thundering in her chest, she jerked the wheel to the right and the sports car rumbled over the rutted ground and crashed head-on into a tree.

The next moments blurred in a barrage of pain, crunching metal, and blood.

Greer started awake, shoving a trembling hand through her hair as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Her palms sweating and her head throbbing. “Dammit.”

In the weeks after the accident she’d been haunted by the dream. It had been the same every time. The oncoming headlights. Jeff’s panicked expletive. And the crash.

Her next memory had been at the hospital. Later she learned from EMTs she’d talked about the other car. She was certain the other car had stopped. That the driver had spoken to her.

But she had no memory to offer more specifics.

In the end the police had determined she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. She’d been young. Inexperienced. No fault. Just a terrible accident.

Greer shook her head.

It hadn’t been an accident.

She’d known for a dozen years.

But that didn’t change the fact that two people were dead. And the burden of their deaths would always weigh on her.

Chapter Eight

Wednesday, June 4, 1 A.M.

David Edwards sat on the leather sofa in his study, surrounded by his richly bound first edition books, paintings of Texas landscapes, and a collection of knickknacks he’d paid a designer a fortune to choose.

On the mahogany table was a bundle of ten letters. Written twelve years ago, the writer’s handwriting was precise for a teen and the words surprisingly articulate. The letters had been written by Elizabeth Greer Templeton and sent to his brother, Rory. On orders from his father he’d confiscated the letters and had promised to destroy them. But when he’d opened them, he’d been curious about anyone who saw redeeming qualities in his brother.

Dear Rory,

Camp is not the same without you. We all miss the way you could make us laugh. I miss the way you hugged me and the way your eyes lit up when you told me I was pretty.

David sat back on the sofa staring at the letter as he sipped whiskey. After he’d read Elizabeth’s first letter he’d done some research on her. It hadn’t been easy because her family guarded their secrets as closely as the Edwards family guarded theirs. But enough money opened the right doors at Shady Grove, and he’d gotten a copy of her file.

The instant he’d read her dossier he knew she was trouble. Nothing good would come of Rory’s dalliance with her or anyone else.

David continued to confiscate her letters to Rory and Rory’s to her. David had expected Elizabeth to give up on Rory, but she’d kept writing until finally he’d been moved to drive out to Shady Grove and speak to her. She’d been defiant, determined and insistent about visiting Rory. No threats had swayed her. She’d sworn she’d find a way. And she had tried. In the end, Rory, being Rory, had failed Elizabeth.

Over the last dozen years, he’d kept tabs on Elizabeth. He’d known all along she lived at Bonneville and had invested her trust fund in the vineyard. Financially, she was stretched thin and having Rory’s fortune would have been handy. He’d gone out of his way to ensure Rory never found her.

David had lied to the Rangers. He had not only spoken to Rory last week on the phone but had also seen him. His brother had been clear-eyed, clean, and lucid. He’d said he’d joined AA and NA and had been substance-free for eight months. His little brother had been proud of his accomplishment and showed him his sobriety chips. Rory had returned to make amends with his family and Elizabeth. When he came into his inheritance, he planned to do good things with it.

Good things. That idiot didn’t have a clue how to handle that kind of money. And he’d feared Elizabeth would soon gain control of the fortune.

David had been furious. He’d told Rory to leave her be because she wanted his money and not him. But Rory had been unusually stubborn and sworn he’d drive out to Bonneville in the morning.

A soft knock on his study door had him straightening. “Enter.”

His wife, Deidra, was a tall, slim blonde. She wore a silk nightgown and though she wasn’t wearing make-up her skin looked like porcelain. “David. It’s late.”

“I know. I’ll be there soon.”

“I miss you.” They’d been married two years now and she’d gotten in the habit of pressing. He didn’t like it.

“Soon,” he said sharply.

Deidra pouted but said no more as she eased out of the room and closed the door behind her.

David swirled his drink, watching as the light caught the cut edges. A smile played on his lips. But ol’ Rory had never made it. And he’d ensure none of those fuck-ups from Shady Grove poisoned his future.

Bragg pushed away from Rory Edwards’s murder-scene photos, rose, and stretched. He’d been studying the pictures for hours and had not made any new discoveries. Winchester had visited Tate’s bar and had shown Rory’s picture around. The place had been crowded and loud and the bartender hadn’t seen Rory. If the killer had met him there, no one had noticed.

Wheeler had gotten more calls from the media. Instead of answering them, he’d forwarded them to Bragg. He’d fielded what he could, said as little as he could get away with, but interest over the death of an Edwards was growing.

He moved into the kitchen and poured coffee from the pot. It was cold so he put the mug in the microwave. As the seconds ticked off, he shrugged his shoulders, trying to work the kinks free. When the microwave dinged, he took his cup and sipped. Bitter.

Sipping his coffee, he sat on the couch, considered clicking on the television, but decided against it. He reached for his cell and scrolled to the picture he’d snapped of Greer. Not the old photo but one taken recently by Rory. Of all the ones taken of her he’d liked this one the best. She stood on the porch of her house staring out over her vineyard. The sun was setting and orange-yellow light illuminated her face. He’d chosen the picture because it was the only one that hadn’t caught her frowning. In this image she looked almost at peace. Bragg traced his finger over the line of her jaw. Looking at her made him hard, hungry, and wanting more than he could put into words.