“What did she want?” Seth’s lips had gone white. Instinctively, Cam stepped over and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t let her spook you, kid. You’re beyond that now. What’s the deal?” he demanded of Phillip.

“I didn’t get details. I was too busy blasting Sybill for not telling me sooner. The gist of it was money.” Phillip shifted his gaze to Seth, spoke directly to him. “She told Gloria to kiss ass. No money, no nothing, no how. She told her she’d been to the lawyer and was making sure you stayed just where you are.”

“Your aunt’s no pushover,” Cam said easily, giving Seth’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “She’s got spine.”

“Yeah.” Seth straightened his own. “She’s okay.”

“Your brother over there,” Cam continued, nodding toward Phillip. “He’s an asshole, but the rest of us have sense enough to know that Sybill didn’t bring up the phone call yesterday because it was a party. She didn’t want anybody to get upset. A guy doesn’t turn eleven every day.”

“So I screwed up.” Muttering to himself, Phillip grabbed a plank and prepared to beat out his frustrations with nail and wood. “I’ll fix it.”

SYBILL NEEDED TO do some fixing of her own. It had taken her most of the day to work up both the courage and the plan. She pulled into the Quinn driveway just after four, and was relieved not to see Phillip’s Jeep.

He’d be at the boatyard for another hour at least, she calculated. Seth would be with him. As it was Saturday night, they would most likely stop on the way home, pick up some takeout.

It was their pattern, and she knew her behavioral patterns, even if she didn’t seem to be able to fully connect with the people who were doing the behaving.

Ten paces back, she thought, and was hurt all over again.

Annoyed, she ordered herself out of the car. She would do what she had come to do. It should take no more than fifteen minutes to apologize to Anna, for the apology to be accepted, at least outwardly. She would explain about the call from Gloria, in detail, so that it could be documented. Then she would leave.

She would be back at her hotel, buried in her work, long before Phillip arrived on the scene.

She knocked briskly on the door.

“It’s open,” came the response. “I’d rather kill myself than get up.”

Warily, Sybill reached for the knob, hesitated, then opened the door. All she could do was stare.

The Quinn living room was usually cluttered, always appeared lived-in, but just now it appeared to have been lived in by a rampaging platoon of insane elves.

Paper plates, plastic cups, several of them dumped or spilled, littered the floor and the tables. Small plastic men were strewn everywhere as if a war had been waged, and the casualties were horrendous. Obviously fatal accidents had taken place with model cars and trucks. Shreds of wrapping paper were sprinkled over all like confetti on a particularly wild New Year’s Eve.