An Escalade slows as it turns off Gable Road and into the driveway blocked by the press.

Great. Now they’re bringing in the big guns.

I stand frozen in the middle of the driveway, contemplating running into the woods. At least, until the Escalade’s driver rolls down his window and orders them away.

The reporters at the gate don’t listen. The Escalade moves forward, making it clear the driver has no problem running them over if they won’t get out of his way.

That’s when I realize it’s not more press. Only someone with the name Riscoff would dare run someone over in broad daylight, in front of a crowd of cameras. It takes a lifetime to build up that level of arrogance.

The gate swings open, and shockingly, the reporters don’t dart inside. They must be veterans, or at least well-versed in the consequences of trespassing.

The Escalade rolls to a stop beside me and the back window rolls down.

Commodore.

“I don’t want to know why you’re here, but get in.”

I’m officially caught between a rock and a hard place. Story of my life. Who would I rather face? Lincoln or the patriarch of his family?

I remember that night when he helped me up out of the dirt at the cabin and drove me home. Commodore wasn’t cruel like I’d expected him to be. I decide to take my chances with him.

It’s the only way I can salvage my pride and escape the press.

I round the SUV and enter the back seat from the other side. Reporters shout questions at me, but I tune them out—a skill I’ve honed over the last decade but didn’t know I’d need again so soon.

When I shut the door, it’s blissfully quiet inside.

“Martin, take us home.”

I jerk my head sideways to look at the old man. “I’m not going to your house.”

He raises a snowy white eyebrow. “You’re in my car. You go where I take you, Ms. Gable.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he continues.

“Do you really think the press hasn’t figured out where your aunt lives? No one will dare set foot on my property. I’d shoot them myself.”

He has a point, even though I don’t want to admit it. I offer up another solution.

“Drop me off at Magnus’s. No one will bother me there or he’ll shoot them.”

Commodore studies me. “Fine.”

As Martin drives through the gate, I keep my face pointed straight ahead, unwilling to look at them, even though they can’t see me through the tinted windows.

“Would you care to tell me what the hell is going on?” Commodore asks. “Because we have quite the mess on our hands this morning, and it’s all because of your late husband’s estate.”

“I saw the headline.”

“And?”

I turn to look at the cagey old man. “At this point, I’m guessing you know more than I do. I’m not the executor of Ricky’s estate.”