“You’re not listening to me, Alex.” Her voice had changed in a beat, and she grabbed my wrist. “I am not going to spend another day in a hospital bed, do you hear me? I refuse. It’s my right to do so.”

“Nana—”

“No!” She let go and pointed at me with a shaking finger. “I will not have that tone, either. Now, are you going to respect my wishes or not? I’ll get right up and do it myself if I have to. You know I will, Alex.”

It was an awful feeling, standing there on the other end of that finger of hers. Nana was insisting, but she was also pleading with me to listen to her wishes.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned in so that my head was right next to hers. When I spoke, it was with my eyes closed.

“Nana, I need for you to get serious about this recovery. Slow down a few miles an hour here and let this happen. You must. So be smart.” The latter was something that Nana had been saying to me since I was ten years old. Be smart.

It was totally quiet in the room except for the sound of her leaning back against the pillow. When I opened my eyes, there were tears on her cheeks. “That’s it, then? This is where I die?”

I pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. Later, I’d sleep in that same chair. “Nobody’s dying in here tonight,” I said.

Part Two

FIRE WITH FIRE

Chapter 28

TONY NICHOLSON WAS already anxious enough, crazed actually, and now he was running late, thanks to an overturned tractor-trailer on the way out of the city. By the time he reached Blacksmith Farms, it was just after 9:30 and his important guests were due in less than half an hour. Including a very special guest.

He stayed in his car and buzzed.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice answered. Cultured. British. His assistant, Mary Claire.

“It’s me, M.C.”

“Good evening, Mr. Nicholson. You’re a bit late.” No shit, Sherlock, Nicholson thought but didn’t say out loud.

The gate swung open and closed again behind his Cayman S as he pulled in.

The long driveway cut across nearly a mile of open field, then through a swath of forest, mostly hickory and oak, before coming out in view of the main house. Nicholson parked his Cayman in the old carriage barn and came in through the patio French doors.

“I’m here, I’m here. Sorry.”

His hostess for the evening, a Trinidadian beauty by the name of Esther, was arranging leather guest folios on a Chippendale table in the foyer.

“Any issues for me?” he asked. “Any unanticipated problems for tonight?”

“None, Mr. Nicholson. Everything is perfect.” Esther had a wonderfully serene manner that Nicholson loved. It slowed him down right away. “The Bollinger is iced, we have the Flor de Farach coronas in the humidors, the girls are all beautiful and properly briefed, and you have”—she pulled a watch out of her pocket; there were no clocks in the house—“at least twenty minutes before our first guests are scheduled to arrive. They called ahead. They are right on time. They sound very… enthusiastic.”