And that, thought David, about summed it up.

By nine o’clock, Ashley was at the Park Avenue law offices of Parrington, Parrington and Smith. Evan, in gray pin stripes for the blustery day, rose to greet her.

“It’s good to see you, Ashley. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. It seems—” His eyes widened with shock as he studied her more closely. “Ashley. Good heavens. What’s happened?”

Shaking her head, assuring him she was fine, she paced in front of his massive desk. She had had no sleep, and the past days had taken their toll, obliterating the devil-may-care look about her and dulling the vibrancy of her eyes. She no longer felt young and carefree. Sneaking around the cold, dark and lonely Maine house last night, she’d overheard conversations, accusations, stories, words. The pain and horror on the faces of the people she had seen was real enough, but that Bartholomew Wakefield—Barky— was the source of it was beyond comprehension. Not real. Not fathomable.

“I have kept you alive all these years; I do not intend for you to be killed now.”

Was that real? Was that fathomable?

Evan urged her to sit down; she couldn’t. Her entire body was shaking with too little sleep and too much caffeine. She was tired, jittery, crazy with fear. After dinner, she had sat alone in her room and decided what she had to do. She had locked her bedroom door, and slipping into a black knit body suit, feeling like a spy herself, she had torn open her window. From that point on, she had never hesitated, never doubted. There were no choices left; she had to act.

The drop from the window was about twelve feet. She and David used to throw each other off the barn roof all the time when they were kids and life was innocent and simple, or had seemed so. This would be no problem.

But when she’d had one leg out the window, Jeremy had knocked.

Jeremy. Passion, light, hope, strength. He wouldn’t stand for her to run from him again. This time, she had qualms about deceiving him.

But his loyalties were torn. Hers weren’t.

She’d thrown out her other leg and, forcing her muscles to relax, jumped.

She’d been outside, hovering among the frostbitten marigolds, below the screens of the sun porch, when Mac Stevens had found J. Land Crockett and Andrew Balaton.

She knew she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t believe them, until she had heard what Barky had to say.

Now, stopping abruptly, she turned to Evan. “Tell me about the jewels, Evan. What did you find out?”

A troubled look on his mild face, Evan nonetheless came straight to the point. “First, that we could have established their provenance in 1982 if we’d pursued the matter. As it turns out, they’re relatively well-known pieces. Ashley, are you sure—if you’ll pardon my saying so, you look exhausted.”

She smiled, reassured by the gentle manner of this prominent lawyer, and, she thought, trusted friend. “I look like hell, Evan—imagine how I feel. But I’ll be okay. Please, just go on.”