Kane picks up the card that reads you stupid bitch, you’ll never figure this out, eyes it, and lifts it in my direction with another one of his arched brows. “Who said this? You or the killer?”

“Probably both,” I say. “I feel like the meaning of that jar of blood is smacking me in the face so damn hard I should have a concussion and I still don’t have it.”

He scans all my options and then says, “You forgot one possibility.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t know. But none of those feel right.”

“Smart-ass. You’re no help.”

His lips curve. “Drink more wine. That will help.”

“I think you’re right.” I reach for my glass and sip, the bloom of sweet red berries on my tongue, my version of poison. For Emma Wells, it was a long, cold drink of water. If she was even poisoned. DD doesn’t think so, but I don’t trust her or her opinions at this point. I’ll wait for the tests.

The doorbell rings and I set my glass down. “That will be Lucas or my brother.” I down my wine and stand up. “You need to drink more wine.”

“I need whiskey,” he comments dryly.

He’s not wrong. This isn’t going to be pretty. I walk to the front door and glance through the side window. It’s Andrew. I don’t know why he’s not with Samantha. I’m sure he’ll be doing the naughty with her later, but I’m more pleased than I expected that he’s here. I open the door. Andrew stands there. He’s wearing a red sweater. Asshole is going to make me get emotional. “Damn you,” I murmur.

“What’d I do already?”

“The sweater.”

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I know. You too, asshole,” he grumbles.

“She was murdered,” I say. “I want those responsible to pay.”

“As do I.”

“If anyone can help us make that happen, it’s Kane. Don’t forget that over dinner.”

His lips tighten and he shoves a bottle of whiskey at me. “Peace offering. The good stuff.”

I glance at the ridiculously expensive bottle he had to have dipped into his trust to purchase and then back at him. “Excellent choice for a peace offering. Let’s go drink.” I back up so he can enter the hallway and shut the door behind him.

He turns to face me. “You heard?”

“Pig’s blood. Yeah. I already told you that.”

He narrows his baby blues at me. “What does it mean, Lilah?”

“Fuck you,” I say, realizing that’s the one notecard I forget to write out. “It means fuck you.”

“Since this is you I’m talking to,” he says, “I’ll take that literally. Which means this is personal.”