Page 107 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“Did you sense he was going to back out of your agreement?”

“This is your final question?”

“Just a clarification.”

“I cannot presume to speculate on what he was planning to do.”

Victor stepped in, closing the gap between them. Lana could feel his breath on her cheek.

“You have one more question.”

Scattered half thoughts floated before her, dancing with the dust motes in the sun. Lana didn’t want to ask directly about the fire, or the fight between Victor and Ricardo, or Verdadera Libertad. He’d just lie, or get angry, or tell her what she already knew. But she realized her whole theory rested on one piece of information. Something for which she didn’t have ironclad proof.

“Did you know about Ricardo’s . . . dealings with Diana Whitacre?”

“You are full of surprises.”

Lana waited, holding her ground.

“Before he died, my father told me it takes a man forty years to learn how to listen to women. To take seriously their power, how ruthless they can be. I’m afraid Ricardo didn’t grow up with a father to teach him these lessons.”

Victor pulled back out of her personal space, as if he had never been there. “You may want to ask Señora Whitacre where she was that Friday. And where she was thirty years ago, when her precious duke fell asleep.”

Lana stared at him, hoping he might elaborate. He watched her steadily, his mouth shut, his dark eyes giving away nothing. Then he tipped his hat and strolled away, disappearing into the leafy, outstretched arms of an apple tree.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Lana woke up the next morning to her phone buzzing. She rolled over and looked at the clock. Nine fifteen. Too early, especially on a Sunday. But at least somebody wanted to talk to her.

Her phone showed two text messages: one from Diana Whitacre, one from Jack.

The one from Diana was simple: Need your help. Please call me.

The message from Jack was not. It was a series of blurry black-and-white images, surrounded by grainy text.

Lana put on her reading glasses and dialed. “Jack?”

“Prima.” The girl was whispering. “I’m at the library.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I only have a minute. I’m doing a research project, going through newspaper databases for primary sources, and I had an idea about that thing you told me last night. About Lady Di. I pulled up the archives for the Daily Mail.”

“In England?” Lana was either still half-asleep or just not following.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I looked her up. Under her old name, Diana Rhoads. And I found it. When she was young, she had a fiancé in England, a duke of somewhere. He died in his sleep, and she was there.”

“Are you serious?”

“I just sent you screenshots. Gotta go.”

Lana pulled herself to a seated position and zoomed in on the photograph on her phone. Jack was right. It was a lurid story about a young duke who died mysteriously in the night on his family’s estate. There, in the caption of the picture, was Diana Rhoads, age twenty-four, grieving fiancée of the deceased. She was wearing a black veil and everything. The other images were from tabloids that picked up the story, casting it in increasingly scandalous terms.

Adrenaline flooded Lana’s body, better than any drug. They’d figured it out. It was Diana. She’d killed a man before. She had access to the victims, the creek, and a life jacket from her daddy’s barn. She’d killed Ricardo. Set up Paul. And then she’d used her old playbook to smother her father into silence and secure control of the ranch.

It sounded good. But it was still circumstantial. Lana had to get concrete evidence of the affair, something more than initials on a day planner that had probably burned up in the fire.

Which was why she picked up the phone and dialed Diana.