“Get here as fast as you can,” Harper said.

“Graham is telling everyone the sale is a done deal.”

I hung up, reached my old Volvo parked down the lane, and threw my bag onto the passenger seat.

The engine coughed, then sputtered to life.

Thirty minutes later, I walked through the heavy oak doors of the Middleburg Hunt Club.

The air inside smelled of beeswax, wet wool, and woodsmoke.

A fire crackled in the stone hearth of the main parlor, where a dozen people stood in small, whispering groups.

Graham stood near the mantle, wearing his tailored tweed jacket, a glass of bourbon in his hand.

Celeste was beside him, having somehow beaten me there, her hair perfectly dried and styled.

Marisol Keene sat in a leather armchair, looking polished and entirely detached.

“Ah, Clara,” Graham said, his voice carrying across the room as the crowd fell silent.

“We were just discussing the final terms of the conservation easement transition.”

He smiled, but his eyes were hard and cold.

“There is no transition,” I said, my voice ringing clearly in the quiet room.