It’s true. Kane hates him and the reasons are many. First, it’s important to note that technically Lucas isn’t a blood cousin. His father was the step-brother to my father. His father was also in the chopper with my mother when they were killed, which has always been curious to me and Lucas. Second, he’s got those blond, surfer-dude good looks that favor my ex, Rich, who I was with during the break Kane and I took. As for why Kane hates him, all of the above, plus Lucas has hit on me more than once. That’s true, but he’s also a dysfunctional mess who always comes through for me.

Which, contrary to the belief my heart is cold, even by me, I can’t leave him alone for the holiday. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I ask.

“More drinking. And I ordered one of those turkey pot pies Micki’s diner makes every holiday. And cake. I got a whole fucking cake for myself. Coconut cream. They made a pie a cake.”

“Okay, then dinner is at five. Bring that fancy laptop you only use for naughty things. And I’ll need you to go ahead and look up a few things tonight. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”

“You? Waiting until tomorrow? Since when do you wait for anything?”

“Since I can’t speak some things on the phone and if I go to your place, Kane might kill you before we ever eat dinner tomorrow. Oh, and bring the pie that’s been made into a cake.”

“Hell no. I’m not going to eat dinner with Kane. Every time he looks at me, I’ll know he’s trying to decide where to bury my body.”

“Like I said. Four o’clock. Be early and bring an expensive bottle of booze to go with the pie cake. That’ll put him in a good mood. You got a pen handy to take some notes?”

“Lilah—”

“Lucas.”

“No,” he says.

“Okay then, I’ll come over there. I’ll just text Kane and tell him I’ll be late.”

“You always get your way, don’t you?”

“Only when it’s life and death. And this is. Did you know Emma Wells?”

“No,” he says. “Should I?”

“She owns a house here in town. She bought it a few years back.”

“I don’t stay connected to the town happenings. You know that.”

“Her husband was Gibson Wells.”

“Oh right,” he says. “He was an accountant. Big shot, too. I saw him around. I do think I remember her, too. Why?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh, well fuck,” he grumbles. “When and how?”

“Tonight. And before you ask, I can’t discuss the cause of death.”

He snorts. “Right. Because we do everything by the books?”

I move on. “What about her fiancé, Morgan Rockport? Do you know him?”