“Or maybe not,” I breathed as I saw Ellasbeth sitting in the greenhouse, Lucy eating a cookie on her lap and Ray patting the table and the sparkle of pixy dust there. “I will not believe that Trenton is dead,” she said, her chin raised and her professional speaking skills making her seem just scared enough and deserving of sympathy. “He was with Morgan at the time of the fire, and if anyone can keep him alive, she can. Until he comes back, I will keep our girls safe.”

She was looking right at the camera, and I shivered. She was talking to Trent.

Trent was as pale as his robe, and he sat back, almost vanishing into the cushions. I knew he wanted to call Quen. It might destroy the illusion that we were dead. We’d never be able to flush Landon out. We had to wait.

“Maybe she had nothing to do with it,” I suggested, remembering her silence when I told her not to call back for at least four hours. She hadn’t called back at all. Had she been trying to give him the room I told her he needed, or had she been trying to keep him asleep until the sun rose and we couldn’t jump out?

Trent silently fumed, and I gave his hand a squeeze. “You don’t know she’s working with Landon,” I said, and his eyes finally came back to me.

“No, but she can play it very cool,” he said. “She won’t move until she’s sure we’re dead or her lawyers have a way to take Lucy.”

I remembered Jenks telling me how Ellasbeth had tried to kill Trent when he had abducted Lucy. Part of me was outraged, but another part knew I’d do anything to stop someone from breaking into my house to steal my child, too. Stopping is different from killing ...

People change, I mused, still wanting to believe Ellasbeth wasn’t involved. “Maybe we should have left little pieces of our DNA on the ceiling.”

“There was no time.” Trent’s response was so fast I knew he’d been thinking about it, too.

The TV was back to commercials. “I was kidding,” I said. “At least she can’t take Ray.”

The mention of his adopted daughter seemed to bring him back, and Trent worked himself out of the cushions. “Quen would kill her if she tried,” he said, clearly uncomfortable. He stood, turning the TV off and frowning at the newly black screen.

Sighing, I wiggled my way to the front of the couch and managed to get up. My God, the thing was a comfort trap. “Come on,” I said as I took his hand and tried to lead him away.

“What? Where?” he demanded, following obediently.