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It was only a thirty-minute drive to the hospital in neighboring Belfast, but Andy had been driving most of the night, and by the time he walked through the doors of Rufus County General, the morning had gone from shocking to surreal.

Even more surreal was seeing Uncle Cuthbert lying so still and flat in his hospital bed. Beneath the bruises and discoloration, his face was waxen. As though he’d already been laid out for the funeral.

Dr. Waldo explained that the old man was comatose following the severe beating he had received from the intruders who had broken into the shop during the night. The good news was the scans had not indicated brain damage. The bad news was…well, obvious. Prognosis? Guarded.

After which, the doctor asked Andy if he needed to sit down.

Andy declined.

He was numb during the short elevator ride to the lobby—moving mechanically, unable to think beyond the horror of seeing Uncle C. lying there so deathly pale and still. He tried to convince himself that his uncle was too tough an old bird to give up and die so easily, but the truth was, Cuthbert Allison was not a tough old bird. He was a frail and kindly old man, who had never harmed anyone in his entire life. He had loved and sheltered his geeky, shy great-nephew when said nephew’s parents didn’t have time—between their Aspen ski vacations and trips to Europe—to be bothered with him. He had instilled an appreciation for the past and taught Andy everything he knew about the antiques trade, which was how Andrew Allison, no longer shy but possibly still geeky, had landed the prestigious and even decently paid gig of curator for the Worley Foundation.

He owed everything to Uncle C., and when Uncle C. had needed him, he had not been there.

Not once. Not twice.Three timesUncle C. had hinted he was hoping for a visit from his favorite—and only—nephew. And not once, not twice, butthree timesAndy had stalled and made excuses because he hadn’t wanted to upset Marcus—had been too gutless to tell Marcus no—and to what end? His relationship with Marcus had continued to deteriorate to the point where for a few minutes there on Friday afternoon, he had honest to God feared for his life.

Stillfeared for his life, if he was honest.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and Andy found himself staring into the dark and owlish gaze of his cousin Clark—though it took him a moment to realize it.

Clark was quicker to recognize him. His expression changed. “Andy!” he exclaimed. “How’d you get here so fast?”

Clark was one of those people who was born middle-aged. At fifty, he didn’t look a whole heck of a lot different than he had at thirty. A little more portly, a little more pouty, but his cheeks were rosy, and his thinning hair and “rich uncle” mustache were still jet black, whether by nature or design.

“Clark, hi,” Andy began, but he was cut off by the slender blonde standing next to his cousin.

“Andrew?You must have driven straight to the hospital!” Fleur sounded more put out than sympathetic.

Andy had only met Fleur once, and that had been while she and Clark were still dating. Unlike Clark, she definitely looked older. Or at least thinner, blonder, and more brittle than he remembered.

“No, I stopped at the shop and spoke to Mrs. Dubonnet.”

“Ugh.” Fleur wrinkled her nose. “That old busybody.” She studied his face, and her brows rose—he hadn’t made any effort to conceal the bruising—she glanced instinctively at Clark.

Clark too was staring at his face. He belatedly offered his hand, saying, “I tried phoning your place in Philadelphia, but your…partner said you’d already left.”

Andy had the uncomfortable sensation the elevator dropped another floor or two from beneath his feet. He said carefully, trying to hide his instant alarm, “You told Marcus I was coming to stay with Uncle C.?”

Belatedly, he realized they were blocking the entrance to the elevator. He stepped off as an elderly couple shuffled inside,peering at the array of buttons. They were still arguing over which floor they needed as the doors slid closed.

“Was it supposed to be a secret?” Clark asked.

Yes.

Jesus Christ,yes, it was most definitely a secret, and Andy could not believe that this piece of catastrophically bad news had just been added to all the rest of the day’s unwelcome developments. And it wasn’t even noon.

“Didn’t seem like it was much of a surprise,” Clark added into Andy’s stricken silence. “He said he figured this was where you were headed.”

“Isn’t it beside the point?” Fleur asked. “You can’t stay at the shop now. Even if Uncle Cuthbert pulls through, he won’t be able to work for ages. He’ll have to sell the business.”

“Fleur,” Clark protested.

She threw him an impatient look. “It’s the truth. We all know it. He should have sold everything years ago. It was just a matter of time before something like this happened.”

“A matter of time before the shop was burglarized?” Andy spoke automatically. His mind was still on Marcus, wondering if Marcus was already on his way to Maine.

Or maybe, just maybe, Marcus would decide he was above chasing Andy up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Was that a possibility? How many times had Marcus accused him of bluffing, of giving ultimatums he didn’t have the balls to back up? Maybe Marcus would look on Andy’s flight as something like that. A ploy. A strategy. Maybe he’d figure Andy would be back soon enough, tail between his legs.

Or maybe not.