The Distiller’s office took up most of the cabin’s interior, and for a moment, as Lane stepped into the space, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The M.D. of the Bradford Bourbon Company was nearly a religious figure in not just the organization, but the state of Kentucky as a whole, and that made this place sacred—accordingly, its walls were covered from floor to ceiling with a pastiche of the company’s liquor labels dating from the mid-1800s all the way up to the early 2000s.

“God, it’s just the same.” Lane looked around, tracing the evidence of his family’s history. “My grandfather used to take me here when they were putting it all together for the first time as a tourist site. I was five or six and he’d bring only me. I think it was because he wanted an architect in the family, and knew that Edward was company bound, and Max wasn’t going to turn into anything.”

“What did you end up doing with yourself?” Mack sat down behind his desk and turned on his computer. “Last I heard you were in New York?”

“Poker.”

“I’m sorry?”

Lane cleared his throat, and felt inadequate. “I, ah, I play poker. Made more money than I would’ve if I’d gotten a desk job—considering I majored in psychology and haven’t worked my entire adult life.”

“So you’re good with the cards.”

“Very.” He changed the subject by nodding at the walls. “Where are your labels?”

The computer let out a beeeep, and then Mack signed in at the log-in screen. “Haven’t put any up.”

“Come on, now.”

“My father’s thirty-fifth run of Family Reserve, right over there”—he pointed to the far corner, by the floor—“was the last.”

Lane grabbed a chair from a conference table and rolled it across the bare, polished floorboards. “You need to get your batches counted.”

“Uh-huh.” Mack sat back in the great leather throne. “So what do you need? What can I try to find for you?”

Lane moved in next to the guy and focused on the blue-green glow of the computer screen. “Financials. I need profit and loss statements over time, account balances, transfer records.”

Mack whistled under his breath. “That’s uphill of my pay grade. Corporate’s got all that—wait, the board book.”

“What’s that?” Jesus, shouldn’t he know?

Mack started going through the file system, opening documents, and hitting Print. “It’s the materials handed out in advance of the Trustees’ meetings. Senior management gets them—and so do I. Of course, the real stuff happens behind closed doors with the executive committee an hour before the open session, and there are no notes on that. But this should give you an idea of the company—or at least what they’re telling the Board about the company.”

As the man started handing over page after page from the printer, Lane frowned. “What exactly goes down at the executive committee?”

“It’s where they debate the meat of things, as well as the stuff they don’t want anyone else to know about. I don’t think there are even minutes taken.”

“Who attends?”

“Your father.” Over came two more pages. “The company’s general counsel. The board chair and vice chair. CFO, COO. And then there are special guests, depending on the issues. I was called in once when they were debating changing the formula for No. Fifteen. I shot that bright idea down and they must have agreed with me because the folly never surfaced again. I was in that boardroom only long enough to be heard, and then I was escorted out.”

“Do you know if they have an agenda in advance?”

“I would think so. When I went, there were four other people waiting in the hall with me, so they were working off some kind of plan. It’s all run out of your father’s offices at your house.”

Lane started going through the papers that were still warm from having been through the machine. Minutes of the previous meeting. Attendance. Updates on operations that he didn’t understand.

He needed a translator.

Who he could trust.

And greater access.

Mack went on to print out the previous three board meetings’ worth of materials. Clipped it all together. Put it in files.

“I need to borrow your truck,” Lane said as he stared at the pile.

“Drop me at home and it’s yours. I should try to sober up, anyway.”

“I owe you.”

“Just save this company. And we are more than even.”

As Mack put his palm out, Lane shook it. Hard. “Whatever it takes. No matter who it hurts.”

The Master Distiller closed his eyes. “Thank you, God.”

Like watching exotic animals at the zoo, Lizzie thought.

Standing at the very edge of the tent, she watched the glittering people wind in and out of the tables she and Greta had set up. The talk was loud, the perfume thick, the jewels flashing. All of the women were in hats and flats. The men were in pale suits and a couple even wore cravats and bowlers.

It was the kind of fantasy life that so many thought they wanted to live.

She knew the truth, however. After all these years working at Easterly, she was well aware that the rich were not inoculated against tragedy.

Their cocoon of luxury just made them think they were.

God, those spreadsheets that Rosalinda had left behind—

“Quite a sight, isn’t it.”