I stand at the fence, coffee in hand, and watch horse and rider canter in a perfect circle. It’s far too early on a Sunday morning to be inhaling horse manure, but the opportunity to spend time with Petra is a godsend. An impossibility I never dreamed would come true.

My baby sister laughs as her mare throws her head. I find myself laughing too. How can I not? Her laugher is the most beautiful sound in the world.

Doris and Paul join me at the fence. I smile at my sister’s adoptive parents and we watch her in silence for a few minutes.

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” Doris’s voice radiates pure maternal pride.

I nod. “She sure is.” I look over at her. “Thank you.”

The older woman squeezes my arm. “Thank you for all you did to protect her. At least now that man is behind bars, we can all rest a little easier.”

That man.

Clayton Getty.

The road to his incarceration wasn’t easy. He had too many officials in his back pocket and tried to call in favors far and wide, stalling for as long as possible the FBI’s attempts to bring multiple charges.

Eventually, it was his own deputy who proved instrumental in putting him away.

Turns out, the FBI’d had their eye on what was going on in Getty Falls for a while. Sadly, none of the cops were willing to stand up to Clayton. Not until Deputy Rick Daniels stepped into Clay’s shoes and decided he never wanted to take them off.

Daniels convinced a few key people to come forward with the promise of immunity from prosecution. After that, Clay’s corrupt empire started to tumble. He’s now behind bars for fraud, prostitution, racketeering and kidnapping. There were a few dozen minor charges thrown in too, but suffice it to say, he won’t be breathing free air for at least thirty years, which is fine by me.

For myself, the FBI decided not to press charges after I confessed to what happened at The Villa. As it turned out, Ridge Mathews wasn’t the golden boy Clay made him out to be. He was dishonorably discharged from the army for raping an underage girl in Iraq. And with Clay having already documented his death as accidental, the authorities were happy to let the matter rest in return for my testimony.

Now that the danger is behind me, I know I have to come to terms with killing a man.

Being here, in Vancouver, with Petra, helps me a little in thinking I did the wrong thing for the right reasons.

Petra waves from across the field. I smile and wave back, and my soul settles a little bit. She canters over with Winnie, her favorite mare, the newest gift to arrive at the farm.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you into riding with me?” Her light green eyes blaze with enthusiasm and happiness.

I wrinkle my nose in mock horror. “Uh, no. After falling off three times last week, I need a huge ego boost, and several layers of padding before I’m tempted to try again.”

She laughs and trots off again.

“Breakfast in half an hour,” Paul shouts after her.

As they discuss what to have for breakfast, the phone in my pocket buzzes.

My heart wobbles, but I make no move to reach for it.

I know who it is. I also know it’s time to change my number. Again.

Four times in three months. Each time, it takes about a week before he discovers the new number. I probably shouldn’t bother.

Maybe it’s a game we’re playing.

Maybe this is destined to be my life.

When the buzzing continues, Doris glances over at me. “Everything okay?”

I nod.

She doesn’t push.

We drift into the warm, sunny kitchen for breakfast, then I head upstairs to take a shower. In my room, I sit on my bed and take out the phone.

Fifteen texts from Quinn, the first one dated five days ago, two days after I got my latest phone. The texts aren’t requests for communication or pleas to be heard. They’re bite-size letters, detailing his life, past and present.

Sometimes he calls me Lucky. Sometimes Elly. Other times Elyse. I guess I’m all those to him. He never calls me firecracker. Maybe that time is over for him.

Regardless of how he addresses me, the information is inexhaustible. At first I didn’t want to read them.

What he did was unforgivable. I don’t care that I was partly responsible for my epic downfall, Quinn and Q manipulated me with the cunning and talent of Machiavelli.

I can never trust him. And I can’t entertain the idea of being with someone I don’t trust.

The phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen and read the latest message.

I hate myself for the lurching of my heart. Just as I hate myself for scrolling through, reading his other texts…

I drop the phone on the bed, lie back and swipe at the tears dripping down my face. I should be done with these damn tears. Done with Quinn. I should throw my phone away and not buy another one. After all, if I don’t have a phone, he can’t contact me. The thought spears me with anguish so ravaging, I jerk into fetal position. I’m not sure how long I lie there, calling myself a thousand kinds of fool.

The distant rumbling of a vehicle sends me to the window.

The farmhouse is remote for a reason. As is the clear NO TRESPASS sign half a mile down the dirt road. I don’t need to look down the driveway to know Paul will already be meeting the car, his shotgun tucked into the crook of his arm. He scared the living shit out of a bunch of joyriders who took the wrong turn onto his property last week.

Although, looking at the sleek black SUV approaching, I have a feeling these aren’t joy riders.

The driver slows when he spots Paul. When Paul cautiously beckons, the vehicle rolls forward. The passenger side window winds down and a conversation takes place. Paul nods once and looks up to my bedroom window.

A tingling seizes my nape as the door opens.

Fionnella steps out.

I bolt out of the room and charge down the stairs. Paul and Fionnella are on the porch by the time I wrench open the front door.

“You’re not welcome here, Fionnella.” I switch glances to Paul. “She’s not welcome!”

He nods. “I told her that. She wanted to hear it from you.”

I turn back to Fionnella. “You’re not—”

“Five minutes, Lucky.” She holds out her hands. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

 I’m shaking my head before she’s halfway through the sentence. “No.”

She sighs. “I have something from him, for you.” She reaches into her pocket, pulls out an envelope and holds it out to me.

“I don’t want it, whatever it is. He already manipulated me into keeping the horse. That’s it, I don’t want anything else from him.”

Fionnella glances at Paul who’s still hovering. Whatever she signals him, he casts me a supportive look, but retreats back into the house. Through the window, I see Petra and Doris staring at me. I try a reassuring smile, but I’m sure it misses the mark.

“It’s the money you’re owed, Lucky. You earned it. Don’t refuse it because of stubborn pride.”

Humiliation reddens my face. “Thanks for the reminder.” I snatch the envelope out of her hands and rip it open. My jaw drops at the sum written on the check.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

She shakes her head. “The two hundred thousand is the remainder of what you agreed. The five million is for reparations.”

“Well, tell him to take his reparations, and shove it.”

Fionnella’s mouth tightens. “Lucky—”

“My name is Elyse. So what else does he want? Please don’t insult me by telling me you flew all the way here just to deliver this.” I slap the envelope on the porch bannister.

“He wants to see you. But he can’t, not with that restraining order you have against him.” Her mouth twists. “A little much if you ask me.”

“I didn’t. I don’t want the money.”

She doesn’t respond. Her chin juts forward, her eyes contemplative as they rest on me. “I told him you wouldn’t take it.”

“And he sent it anyway. Of course.”

“It’s a natural reaction.”

“To throw money at everything?”

“To seek what he thinks is the most effective solution to a problem.”

“I’m not a problem! At least not his problem. He can’t pull my strings and manipulate me anymore. And how the hell did you two find me anyway?”

“I’m very resourceful. And let’s face it, with Getty behind bars, you haven’t tried very hard to hide your tracks. Or he wouldn’t be sending you those texts within days of buying a new phone.”

“Maybe I should try harder then. Maybe I should take this money and use it to place a few continents between us, hide in a place where he can’t find me.”

“He will always find you, Elyse. There’s nowhere on earth you can disappear to that I won’t find you, if the boss wishes me to.”

“I know who he is now, Fionnella. You don’t need to keep calling him the boss.”

“He may no longer be your boss, but he’s mine.”

“What’s your deal, Fionnella? Why are you here, fighting for him?”

She looks off into the rolling fields and paddock for a minute, before she meets my gaze. “He tried to help me with my son. Michael came home from Afghanistan with PTSD. He was Adriana Nathanson’s patient. You’ve seen the footage. You know how she treats her young male patients. He was under her care for a year before he committed suicide.”

My hand lifts to my mouth as horror drenches me. “I’m sorry.”

Grief blankets her face for a moment, but then her brisk manner returns. “Take the money, Elyse. If not for yourself, then for the sister you gave every dime of those eight hundred thousand dollars to. Think what this could do for Petra.”

“Please don’t say her name,” I mutter, still caught in Fionnella’s confession.

A dart of hurt crosses her face. “What did I do that was so bad, Lucky? Hmm? You signed up to do a job. I ensured you were taken care of so you could do it. Are you condemning me for that?”

“You knew what he was doing with me. With Elyse. Lucky knew what she signed up for. Elyse didn’t deserve the mind-fucking that came with the deal. She didn’t deserve to have her feelings fucked with.”

“No, you’re right. He never placed the ad with that Blackwood magazine until this last time. I knew it was a mistake.”

I exhale in disbelief. “That’s all you have to say?”

“It’s not for me to apologize for him. But you wouldn’t have met him otherwise, and you wouldn’t feel this much pain if he means nothing to you. Also you wouldn’t have had the means to buy yourself time from Clay. Think about that.”

“So what, you want me to go have a cup of coffee and a conversation with him?”

“He can’t have a goddamn coffee or conversation with you when you’ve got a restraining order out on him. And he certainly can’t do that when he’s hell-bent on killing himself!”

Icy chains shackle my heart. “What are you talking about?”

She sighs and it’s a weary, hollow sound. “This was his plan all along, Lucky. Expose his father, stepmother and shrink. Then find a way to end it all. Except you came along. You gave him hope! Probably even love. Am I right?”

I shudder in the face of the raw accusation.

“And now you’re withholding it.”

My eyes widen. “Please tell me you’re not finding some way to blame me for all of this?”

She shrugs. “Love comes with responsibility. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re responsible for him. It’s your name he toasts to every time he gulps down a mouthful of whiskey, and trust me, he does that very often. It’s your name he screams out for in his sleep. You be the judge of what needs to be done. The jet will be at Vancouver International for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll leave your name with the crew. If you’re not there by midday tomorrow, it’ll take off.”