The face that looked up was barely recognizable as the stylish, put-together woman who made her career as a TV commentator. When Sam first met her, Diandra believed she had the situation fully under control. Her husband had done her bidding and taken out his inconveniently nominated brother. Everything was right in her world. Until the moment Preston went too far and shot their son. That, most definitely, had not been part of Diandra’s plan.

“What do you want?” Diandra asked, her voice and posture defeated.

“How is he?”

“How does he look?”

“Not too good. May I speak to you outside for a moment?”

“I don’t want to leave him.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

Diandra bent to press a kiss to Devon’s forehead. In the hallway, she crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall, exhaustion all but rippling from her.

Aware of the nurses clustered around the monitoring station a few feet away, Sam kept her voice low. “Where’s Austin?”

“He went home to change.”

“What about Preston?”

“I have no idea.” Clearly her concern from yesterday had morphed into anger overnight.

“Where would he go?”

Diandra shook her head. “I wish I knew. He doesn’t even know about Devon.”

So, Sam thought, still in denial, are you, Diandra? Still not sure your husband could really shoot his own son? Still not aware of just how much power you exert over Preston or how far he’d go to ensure your happiness? Being on top—or thinking you’re on top—made the fall that much harder and longer. This woman had a huge fall coming her way, even if Devon survived.

“We’d like to speak to him.” Sam nudged Freddie. “Give her your card. Call Detective Cruz if you hear from him. Do you understand?”

“What does Preston have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I want to talk to him.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Diandra asked, zeroing in on Sam’s face. “You’re trembling and ghostly pale.”

“She was in a car accident last night,” Freddie said.

“And you’re working on Devon’s case?”

“I’m working on both cases—Devon’s and Julian’s.”

Diandra appeared startled to hear that. “What does one have to do with the other?”

Sam took a moment, sized up the other woman, measuring her every movement. “I don’t know yet.” Despite what the motion cost her aching head, she leaned in closer. “But I’m going to find out, Diandra. You can bet your ass I’m going to find out. Detective Cruz? Let’s go.”