And Stuart, Wes thought. He owed so much to his longtime friend and neighbor. They’d sit on the porch late into the evening and listen to the crickets, talk about politics and international affairs, the economy, social justice, personal and public accountability, terrorism-and fishing, varieties of tomato plants, the weather. Wes remembered when the twins were born, how shocked and happy Stuart was to be a father at last, and Wes had known that Betsy had married the better man.

Evelyn slipped into bed. She often stayed up late reading. She was a small, shy, attractive woman, more up to her role as First Lady than anyone had anticipated. People empathized with her awkwardness, the losses she’d endured.

“You can’t sleep?” she asked.

Wes shook his head. “No.”

“I keep thinking about poor Sarah and Rob. What a nightmare this must be for them. To have had that wonderful visit together in Amsterdam, and just a few weeks later-” She shuddered. “It’s hard to think about Rob suffering. And Sarah’s only just home from Scotland. Don’t you just hate to think about what they’re both going through?”

“Sarah’s back in Night’s Landing.”

Ev shuddered. She’d always been ambivalent about Night’s Landing. She’d never been a part of his life there or had any interest in making the Poe house her own. She appreciated Wes’s devotion to Leola and Violet, but to Evelyn, the sisters were remote, quaint, a little unreal. She was from an upper-crust Belle Meade family-she ran in loftier circles than the Quinlans. Her connections had helped propel him to the governor’s mansion, not that it mattered. Wes had fallen hopelessly in love with her in his late twenties, years after Betsy Quinlan had married Stuart Dunnemore and had born twins.

But Evelyn was no longer secure in his love for her-he didn’t know if she ever would be, if he ever could make her believe that she hadn’t let him down by not being able to bear children.

“Wes.”

“What is it, Ev?”

“If you had it to do all over again, would you still marry me?”

“Of course! Oh, Ev. Don’t think like that.”

“I love Sarah and Rob as if they were our own, but I know they’re not. I’ve never discouraged you from being a part of their lives. The Dunnemores are almost as much your family as Leola and Violet were. But you can’t let your affection for them cloud your judgment.”

“There’s no judgment to cloud. I’m on the sidelines.”

She looked at him as only she could, with a frank honesty he’d come to expect and appreciate-to need in his life. “Do you really think so?”

He didn’t answer, knew he couldn’t convince her.

“You’d do anything for Sarah and Rob. Anything. I’m not the only one who knows it.”

“Ev…”

“Our love for them makes us both vulnerable, but especially you. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

Wes sighed. She was the worrier, the conspiracy theorist, in many ways, more tough-minded than he was. He could lead and inspire, but he was the last to recognize an enemy. “I promise.”

She rolled over, her back to him. Wes turned out the light. He listened to his wife take in sharp, fearful breaths, and he could almost feel her mind racing ahead, imagining terrible scenarios, working herself up into an anxious frenzy. So often, her instincts were on target.

But not this time, Wes told himself. This time, she was worrying over nothing.

Some thug in Central Park had tried to take out two federal agents.

That was it. There was nothing more.

Twenty-Two

Sarah woke up early and alone in bed, a mockingbird singing outside her open window and the air smelling faintly of roses. But the familiar sounds and smells did nothing to soothe her after her night of unsettling dreams and images. She slipped into jeans and a lightweight hiking top and tiptoed down to the kitchen, the fried apricot pies where she’d left them on a brown paper sack.

When she’d gone up to bed last night, Nate was in the shower. She’d slipped into her room and crawled under the covers, listened to the water turn off, the bathroom door shut, then his door shut, and she wondered if he was furious with himself for what had happened in the kitchen. If he regretted it because they both were under such stress, because he was a law enforcement officer and she was Rob’s sister-because, basically, he should know better.

Then again, he might not regret anything.

She poured herself a glass of iced tea and dialed Rob’s room at the hospital.

She pictured them as little kids running through the house, their laissez-faire parents only vaguely aware of what they were up to most of the time. They’d catch frogs and snakes and explore the limestone caves and sinks along the riverbank, and in winter, they’d wait for an ice storm so they could get out their orange plastic flying saucers and try to make it as close to the riverbank as possible-not that they ever went into the water. Once, Rob had slid off his saucer and cut his face and hands on the ice that covered every blade of grass, every exposed twig. It was the first time Sarah remembered seeing him in real pain.

He answered his phone himself.

“Am I calling too early?” she asked cheerfully.

“Yes. What’re you up to?”

“I’m about to eat a fried apricot pie for breakfast. I made them last night before bed.”

“Where’s Nate? Is he behaving himself?”

She sipped her tea, welcoming the jolt of sweetness. “I think he’s still in bed.”

“Stay on your toes with him. I know you like those old fusty academic types, but the guy has a hell of a reputation with women.”

“What old fusty academic guys?”

“Come on. You don’t trust hard-ass guys like Nate. You figure they’re just after your body not your mind-”

“Rob! You must be feeling better.”

“Yeah.” He sounded relieved, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

“Don’t worry about me, okay? I can take care of myself.”

“Nate’s married to the job, but he’s got total focus-he’s the best at what he does, no matter what little tootsie he’s got on the side.”

“Little tootsie?” Sarah made herself smile, hoping it’d reflect in her voice. “Thanks for the warning, but maybe it’s time I let a hard-ass type have his way with me.”

“Oh, man. I don’t even want to go there. Have you talked to Mother and Dad? They’re heading to New York.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic. “They’ll be here in time to tuck me in tonight.”

“Aren’t you lonely?” She was half kidding.

Rob scoffed. “Not a chance. All the brass will roll out for them when they get here. Just what I need. I hate for Dad to make the trip when it’s not necessary.”

It was more than that, Sarah knew. He hated for their father to see him in the condition he was in, seriously injured on a job both parents thought he wasn’t suited for. To them, Rob was a fun-loving charmer, an average student who excelled at languages because he liked them. They didn’t really believe he had the backbone to be a federal agent. They feared he was a throwback to the Dunnemores of old, adventurous but without their tough recklessness, their ability to truly not give a damn.

“Dad’ll be fine,” she said. “He’ll probably live to be a hundred. Rob, you know he’s proud of what you do.”

“He’d rather I were secretary of state.”

She tried to laugh but hated how low he sounded. “But then you’d have to answer to Wes, and that’d never work. It’s not like getting shot proves Dad right-it was never a question about being right, anyway. It’s about his hopes for you.”

“I know.”

But there was something in his tone. Sarah frowned. “You’re not getting depressed on us, are you?”

“Dreading seeing the old man with my spleen in a garbage disposal and a scar-” He broke off, and she could hear that he was in a slump. “There’s something I’m missing. I don’t know. This guy you saw in Central Park-”