Lillith seemed to be trying to shake her head. She closed her eyes—though the one over the sunken cheek wouldn’t shut properly.
“I’ve already called 911,” Kelly said. Miraculously, one of Lillith’s hands seemed untouched. Kelly took it into her own. It was cold. “They’ll be here soon. They’ll know what to do.”
Lillith moved her lips again. Kelly tried to hear—she made out an e, but the consonants were all a bubbling mush of blood.
Maybe it was Kelly.
Or maybe baby.
Or perhaps it was simply Help me.
“Lily,” she said again. In the movies, people always begged dying friends to keep talking. Was there some magic in that? But how could she ask those mangled lips to try to form words?
God, she was useless. The truth was, she had no idea what to do.
“Lily, I love you,” Kelly said, because there was nothing else to say, and because it seemed important. She was aware that tears were flooding down her face.
Lillith nodded a fraction of an inch. Or maybe Kelly just wanted to believe she did. And then Lillith seemed to try to speak again. Kelly leaned forward.
It was as wet and half-formed as before.
But this time it sounded like Sophie.
It was the last word Lillith Griggs ever spoke. She was dead before the ambulance arrived.
CHAPTER TWO
TOM BECKHAM HAD A SIXTH SENSE about parties. He could predict to within about ten minutes when they were going to go bad or get ugly.
As a rule, that instinct was quite useful. He always slipped out the door just before the champagne or the conversation fell flat. He said his goodbyes five minutes before the fight broke out on the patio or the junior partner puked in the pool.
But fat lot of good that sixth sense could do him today, at this party, which was being held on a boat, about three hundred yards off the Georgia coast. Though his instincts were definitely telling him to get the hell out of here, he couldn’t really do anything about it.
He glanced over the side of the seventy-five-foot yacht, where the Atlantic was sparkling under the cold September sun like a million sequin-tipped knifepoints. Swimming was out of the question, he supposed.
But if things kept deteriorating—and the ratio of guests to alcohol indicated it would—he just might consider it.
“Tom!” A hand grabbed Tom’s forearm so hard he spilled his drink, which, now that the ice had melted, was filled to overflowing. Watered-down scotch mapped cool trails down his hand. “You’re not thinking of jumping overboard, are you? The Smythe case couldn’t have bothered you that much. Everybody loses now and then.”
Shaking scotch from his hand, Tom turned with a smile. Bailey Ormonde, senior partner and head estate-planning attorney in Tom’s law firm, always talked too loudly and shook hands too firmly as a way of compensating for being about five-three. But he wasn’t at heart a bad guy.
“If I jump, it won’t be because of Smythe,” Tom said. “I didn’t lose that case—justice won. The guy had a second set of financial records hidden in his underwear drawer, for God’s sake. It took them about five minutes to find it.”
“What a moron.” Bailey snorted. “Still, this is the second time you’ve mentioned Justice, capital J, in the past week. Not a good thing in our favorite civil litigator. I’m starting to worry about you, pal. What’s the matter?”
Trust Bailey to home in on the real issue. Lawyers in the elite firm of Ormonde, White and Murray weren’t supposed to value Justice over Victory. Justice was a malleable concept. It was whatever you wanted it to be. Victory, on the other hand, was absolute. In the lofty heavens of their penthouse world, the Client was God, and the Blind Lady was either supposed to join the choir or get out of the way.
Tom had understood that when he’d joined the firm ten years ago. He understood it still. So what was the matter with him? Midlife crisis? A little early for that, at only thirty-five. Professional burnout? Ditto on that.
Too soon to grow a conscience, as well—his portfolio wasn’t anywhere nearly big enough yet.
Nope, too early for any of that. So why, in some deep, unspoken place, did he sometimes have the feeling it might be a great deal too late?
But this wasn’t the time for soul-searching, and Bailey was no Freud anyhow. So instead of answering, Tom sipped at his drink and squinted at the cluster of guests near the starboard railing. Such beautiful people, bronzed by expensive machines, and then gilded by the sunlight until they looked like golden statues from the lobby of some fin de siècle opera house.
Bailey was too smart to push it. He knew that, in his way, he’d put Tom on notice, and he trusted Tom to read between the lines.
“So where is your gorgeous lady friend?” Bailey raised one eyebrow. “I hope you haven’t let Coach O’Toole get his hands on her.”
Tom scanned the crowd. Darlene was undoubtedly in there somewhere, though she had arrived on her own, as she’d been running late this morning.
Yep, there she was. Bailey wasn’t exaggerating. She was gorgeous. She stood in a nimbus of sunlight, one hand at her breast and the other lightly curved just at the apex of her thighs, looking for all the world like a Botticelli Venus—not a coincidence, Tom felt sure. Her dress was virginal white, but so filmy and formfitting she looked as if she’d been dipped in milk and set out to be licked clean.
Tom waited for the appreciative twitch to register in his groin, but it didn’t come. Poor Darlene. Not even a twitch, where once there had been earthquakes.
She had no idea, but their clock had just struck midnight. Her magic had run out.
Frankly, he hadn’t even wanted her to come today. She’d begun vigorously working the crowd at these events, smiling her heart out while she talked him up. It annoyed him. It looked like an audition for the role of trophy wife.
“You’re a lucky devil, Beckham,” Bailey said, shaking his head and making a noise that, if he hadn’t been the senior partner, would have been smacking his lips. “When does her lease expire? You always trade ’em in after a year, right? Any chance she thinks short guys are hot?”
Tom wondered if his thoughts about Darlene had registered on his face. He rearranged his features. “Women don’t care if you’re small as long as you’ve got a great big—” he grinned “—credit limit. In that department, you’ve got everyone on this boat whipped. Even Coach O’Toole, in spite of that ridiculous bonus the alums have just added to his paycheck.”
Bailey eyed Mick O’Toole, the head coach for the Midwest Georgia University football team, who stood talking to his host, the most arrogant MGU alum of them all, Trent Saroyan. Saroyan owned the boat, and it might be successfully argued that he owned O’Toole, too.
He’d thrown the party today to celebrate a strong 2–0 start for O’Toole’s second season as MGU head coach. The Spitfires had had a 15–2 season last year, almost making it to the National Championship game. The party, the yacht and the bonus were just the alum’s polite way of saying that this year it had better be the gold ring.
“You think he knows he’s going to get shitcanned if he loses even one game this season?” Bailey’s shrewd eyes held a hint of pity. But just a hint. Their firm represented Trent Saroyan, the yachtsman and check-writer, not the coach.
“Nope,” Tom said. “Look at him. He’s still naive enough to think he can get loud with the boosters.”
Oh, hell. That must be what had activated his sixth sense. Mick O’Toole and Trent Saroyan were standing too close together, and their voices were rising, developing sharp edges. They were arguing about O’Toole’s choice of starting