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Andy shook his head in disbelief. “I guess I have a different idea ofa few details. How do we stop Robie from coming after us again?”

“In another hour or so, Robie will be in custody.”

Quinn’s tone was reassuring. He was not impatient, he was not at all patronizing, but that attitude of calm authority in the face of what, to Andy, felt like total mayhem was aggravating. “Willhe? What if he’s not? I mean, I get it, Quinn. This is routine for you. It’s not routine for me. My entire life—Uncle C.’sentire life—”

Quinn said sympathetically, “Would you like me to drive?”

Andy started to laugh, and if he could hear that ragged note of hysteria, no doubt Quinn could, though Quinn didn’t say a word. He did put his hand on Andy’s knee in what was either wordless support or, more likely, alarm. But that warm grip allowed Andy to get control again. He pulled safely to the side of the road, pulled the parking brake, and opened the driver’s side door. Glass showered down into the patchy snow.

“Yeah. That seems like a good idea. You drive.”

No acrobatics this time. They exchanged places the usual way. Quinn got behind the wheel. Andy took shotgun, buckling up as though securing himself against any and all assaults. Quinn shifted into drive and away they went.

The drive to Bangor International Airport took about a week, or so it felt, and not a word was spoken the entire journey.

As they pulled into the driveway of the car-rental place, Andy’s phone began to ring.

He pulled it out, stared at the unsmiling contact photo for Arthur Borgenicht, Director of the Worley Foundation and his boss. His heart plummeted.

He knew. Knew what this call was about. Knew this was what he had been waiting for. What he had been dreading.

“Aren’t you going to pick up?” Quinn gave him a puzzled look.

“No.”

Quinn’s brows rose, but he made no further comment.

They parked, and while Quinn went inside to deal with the paperwork and pay what was probably going to amount to the price of a new car, Andy sat inside Quinn’s Land Rover and checked his messages. He was startled to see he’d missed a phone call from Clark. He closed his eyes, said a silent prayer. He really, really didn’t think he could take hearing Uncle C. had suffered a setback. It took all his resolve to hit Play.

To his relieved surprise, the news was good. Very good. Uncle C. had briefly regained consciousness and was off the ventilator. Clearly making the effort to extend an olive branch, Clark had even suggested Andy stay with him and Fleur until Time in a Bottle was cleared as a crime scene.

Fortified by so much unexpected holiday cheer, Andy steeled himself to listen to the message from Mr. Borgenicht.

He pressed Play.

From his first stiffhello, Mr. Borgenicht sounded immensely uncomfortable.

“Hello, Andrew. Arthur Borgenicht here. I’m sorry not to be able to reach you in person. This is not the way I would wish to handle this, but then I’m sure you realize none of this is what any of us would wish for.” Mr. Borgenicht cleared his throat. “Following an emergency convening of the museum’s board of directors on Tuesday evening, the decision has been made to terminate your employment with the foundation, effective immediately. A formal letter will follow in the mail with the full details of your termination, but we—I—felt it was only fair to let you know the board’s decision as soon as possible.”

There was a weird pause as though Mr. Borgenicht was waiting for a response from Andy.

When none was forthcoming, he said awkwardly, “Thank you for understanding,” and hung up.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Boy, theyreallydon’t like it when you return your rental without filling up the gas tank,” Quinn joked as he climbed into the Land Rover. He glanced at Andy—glanced again. “Everything okay?”

Andy sucked in a sharp breath, managed a relatively calm, “No. Not really.”

“Cutty?”

Andy shook his head. “No. Thank God.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Andy gave a short laugh. “I’m starting to wonder what’sright.”

Quinn’s brows drew together. “I take it there was more than one missed phone call?”