Slipping the picture back where I found it, I start looking through the other documents. There’s something here about mortgage rates and risk analysis.

What was the inspiration for that drawing? Was it what happened in the limo? Or perhaps what happened the night before?

I flip to another paper. Something about interest rates.

Does he really think I’m that pretty? Does the period dress mean something? Does he see me through some kind of classical lens?

There’s a currency conversion chart, comparing pesos to dollars.

That drawing might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.

As soon as the thought runs through my head, I freeze, the conversion chart still in my hand.

What the hell am I thinking? I’m not supposed to care about whether or not Lander feels romantic about me. I’m only supposed to care about whether or not he gives me access to his home and office—so I can get my hands on the information I can use to make sure the Gables suffer the exact same loss, pain, and humiliation my mother experienced. By the time I’m done, they’ll all be behind bars, protesting their innocence to guards who don’t care and won’t listen. They’ll lose their family, friends, reputations . . . If all goes as planned, at least one will lose their life.

It’s actually less about justice and more about karma. When they say karma’s a bitch, they’re talking about me.

. . . But what if Lander isn’t as guilty as I think he is?

I have pretty compelling, albeit circumstantial, evidence that Travis was involved in Nick’s death in some manner, and I’m positive that it was Travis and Lander’s father who set my mother up to take the fall, thereby tearing apart my family . . .

But, really, other than Lander’s being friendly with Sean White and testifying about an argument my mother had with Nick Foley’s wife—an argument that might have actually happened—what do I have that ties Lander to the whole thing?

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to block out the doubts. The evidence against Lander might not be as strong as that against the other players, but it is there. And I’ve seen Lander’s dark side—it’s not just pretty pictures and romantic dinners. He was savage when he fought that biker. And he enjoys that dive bar because he thinks the people there are simpler, easier—not really human at all in some sense. And those other pictures he drew, the ones in his sketchbook, they’re a little frightening . . .

It would be easier if I didn’t find his dark side as compelling as his romanticism.

We’re two of a kind.

I’m in trouble.