From #1 New York Times bestselling author and “masterful storyteller” ( USA TODAY ) Sandra Brown—a sexy, sultry, family-based thriller set in a small southern town. When her younger brother, Danny, commits suicide, Sayre Lynch breaks her vow never to return to her Louisiana hometown, and gets drawn back into her tyrannical father’s web. He and her older brother—who control the town’s sole industry, an iron foundry—are as corrupt as ever. Worse, they have hired a shrewd and disarming new lawyer, Beck Merchant…a man with his own agenda. When the police determine that Danny’s suicide was actually a homicide, Sayre must battle her family—and her passionate feelings for Beck—as she confronts a powder keg of old hatreds, past crimes, and a surprising plan of revenge. "A masterful storyteller." -- USA Today "[Sandra Brown] carefully crafts tales that keep readers on the edge of their seats." -- USA Today "Ingenious storytelling...top-notch." -- The Roanoke Times Sandra Brown is the author of seventy-three New York Times bestsellers. She has published over eighty novels and has upwards of eighty million copies of her books in print worldwide. Her work has been translated into thirty-five languages. Four books have been adapted for film. She lives in Texas. Chapter 1 chapter 1 “Do you remember Slap Watkins?” “Who?” “The guy who was spouting off in the bar.” “Can you be more specific? What bar? When?” “The night you came to town.” “That was three years ago.” “Yeah, but you should remember.” Chris Hoyle sat forward in an attempt to goose his friend’s powers of recall. “The loudmouth who caused the fight? Face that would stop a clock. Big ears.” “Oh, that guy. Right. With the…” Beck held his hands at the sides of his head to indicate large ears. “That’s how he got the nickname Slap,” Chris said. Beck raised an eyebrow. “Whenever the wind blew, his ears—” “Slapped against his head,” Beck finished. “Like shutters in a gale.” Grinning, Chris tilted his beer bottle in a silent toast. The window blinds in the den of the Hoyles’ home were drawn to block out the shimmering heat of a late-afternoon sun. The closed blinds also made the room agreeably dim for better TV viewing. A Braves game was being televised. Top of the ninth and Atlanta needed a miracle. But despite the unfavorable score, there were worse ways to spend a stifling Sunday afternoon than inside a semidark, air-conditioned den, sipping cold brews. Chris Hoyle and Beck Merchant had idled away many hours in this room. It was the perfect male playroom, with its fifty-inch TV screen and surround-sound speakers. It had a fully stocked bar with a built-in ice maker, a refrigerator filled with soft drinks and beer, a billiards table, a dartboard, and a round game table with six leather chairs as soft and cushy as the bosom of the cover girl on this month’s issue of Maxim. The room was paneled with stained walnut and furnished with substantial pieces that wore well and required little maintenance. It smelled of tobacco smoke and reeked of testosterone. Beck uncapped another bottle of beer. “So what about this Slap?” “He’s back.” “I didn’t know he was gone. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him since that night, and then I was looking at him through swelling eyes.” Chris smiled at the memory. “As barroom brawls go, that was a fairly good one. You caught several of Slap’s well-placed punches. He was always handy with his fists. He had to be because he shot off his mouth all the time.” “Probably defending against cruel cracks about his ears.” “No doubt. Anyway, that smart mouth of his kept him on everybody’s fighting side. Soon after our altercation with him, he got into a feud with his sister’s ex-husband. Over a lawn mower, I think it was. Things came to a head one night at a crawfish boil, and Slap went after his ex-brother-in-law with a knife.” “Killed him?” “Flesh wound. But it was right across the guy’s belly and drew enough blood to warrant an assault with a deadly weapon charge and probably should have been attempted murder. Slap’s own sister testified against him. He’s been in Angola for the past three years, now out on parole.” “Lucky us.” Chris frowned. “Not really. Slap’s got it in for us. At least that’s what he said that night three years ago when he was being hauled away in a squad car. He thought it unfair that he was being arrested and we weren’t. Screamed invectives and threats that made my blood run cold.” “I don’t remember that.” “That may have been when you were in the men’s room nursing your wounds. Anyhow,” Chris continued, “Slap is an unstable and untrustworthy ne’er-do-well, a trailer trash Bubba whose only talent is holding grudges, and in that, he excels. We humiliated him that night, and even drunk as he was, I doubt he’s forgiven and forgotten. Keep an eye out for him.” “I consider myself warned.” Beck glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen. “Am I