Trey was wealthy, and his parents were one-percenters. Bree had a B.A. in theater from a state university and no real employment record or family resources. She’d be vivisected by the best lawyers in the country; she’d lose everything. If Trey was angry enough, if he let those lawyers take the gloves off, she could lose custody of her kids.

Marshall couldn’t want any of that, which meant that he could not want Bree. Any good person would hope and pray her husband was as decent as he seemed and that he had an explanation she could live with.

So he said, “Good luck,” to Bree and tried like hell to mean it. To his surprise it was easy. He loved her. He wanted her to be safe and happy more than he wanted her to be his.

“Good luck,” she echoed.

He undid his seat belt, ready to go, but she lurched at him, and then she was in his arms, her hands clutching him, her rose-scented hair pressing against his face. It was the last thing he needed. It was the only thing he wanted. For a moment the pressure lifted. He might as well have been on Cara’s lake. Sunshine and Jet Skis.

When she pulled away, he had to send a conscious message to his arms, telling them to release her.

She got out of his car, already gone from him. Her mind was on her son and her husband and all that the next few hours would bring. He wanted to stay with her, help her through it. Hear what Trey had to say for himself. But once he was back in the driver’s seat, once he was in motion, reality settled back around him like a darkness falling. It was not his place. It never would be. Time to get to work.

First stop his house, to raid his gun safe. He was heading into Lexie’s world now. The Methlands. He wanted to be armed. He took his .38 in his shoulder holster, plus a Beretta Nano at his ankle. Then on to the place Lexie had shared with Toby when she was on parole.

It was a rental with peeling paint and sagging shutters, set close to the road on a block down in southwest Atlanta that had yet to gentrify.

It was full dark now. He could see that the lights were on, and there was a shit-colored Civic in the driveway. He got up, and as he came close, he heard music playing. Creedence. Someone was home.

He stepped up onto the low porch, the boards bowing to his weight, and knocked.

The music cut off, and then Toby Leland cracked the door. Same cotton-fluff hair, but longer. Same neck tat. Marshall could see it through the gap as Toby peered out. The stink of old cigarettes wafted by in a puff of escaping air. It almost hid the skunky whiff of pot.