As Luke crept down the mountain, he could still feel the Chrysler’s leather-covered steering wheel under his hands instead of the cold plastic of the rental.

God almighty, he had been so fucking stupid to imagine Stefan was the same idealistic man he’d been, willing to resume their old relationship, untouched by Marius’s insidious wealth and Luke’s own bone-headedness.

But Stefan’s eyes in the lamplight at dinner, his hands on Luke’s skin, the trust in his face when he’d shown Luke the haunted studio . . . Stefan had wanted it too, right up until he’d heard about the sale.

How could he choose money over morals? Over his own talent and artistic integrity? Shit, over his fricking sanity?

Luke inched around the last turn. Thank God he was almost off this fucking mountain for the last time.

A deer burst out of the trees and leaped in front of the car. Luke stood on the brakes, his shoulders bunched nearly to his ears, and the car slid to a halt with barely a skid.

The deer stared at him, dark eyes wide, as if resigned to death by Hyundai. Luke frowned, something tugging at his memory. That look. Stefan had worn exactly the same expression when Luke had stomped out of the cabin.

Shit-fuck-damn-it-all-to-hell. Luke slammed his fist on the horn, and the deer bounded away into the underbrush. He’d been so up in his own head he hadn’t seen it—Stefan’s fear, his sorrow, his hopeless fatalism. All there on his open face, but Luke hadn’t been able to see it beyond his own insecurities.

He punched the gas in a lead-footed rush to Franklin’s broody Victorian. The guy owed Luke some answers, and both of them owed Stefan a hell of a lot more.

Stefan lay on the sofa, counting each tick of the clock, the tiger’s-eye pendant clutched in his hand. He should be proud of himself. He’d stayed strong, and although he’d probably killed Luke’s affection for him, at least Luke’s life, his career, were still intact.

It was enough. It had to be.

How much time did he have left before Luke turned him in? He had no intention of attempting another drunken forgery, no matter what he’d implied. He had no intention of taking another penny of Thomas’s money either, but he had nothing else to hock except Luke’s pendant. Could he stand to lose it, to sever his last link to Luke?

If it means saving him from his own hero complex, then hell yes.

It could give him enough cash to get out of town, to disappear off the grid as he’d done before. Then Luke wouldn’t have to split his loyalties—he could report the forgeries and preserve his reputation, but honestly say he had no idea where the forger was.

What if he still doesn’t report them, though? If Luke was right and Thomas had knowingly foisted them off on some unsuspecting buyer, how could Stefan simply vanish without making things right? I owe the art world the truth—Thomas may have given me the opportunity to rest and heal, but he victimized me too.

The truth. Christ. Who’d ever believe it? Thomas would look like the victim and Stefan the crook. One way or another, I’m screwed. But better me than Luke—he has more to lose.

From the middle of the oak coffee table, the bottle of Glenlivet dared him. He picked it up by the neck, holding it in front of the oil lamp. The combination of the flame and the green glass bottle turned the Scotch a poisonous, seductive chartreuse. He swished the liquid back and forth and around until it swirled into a tiny vortex, threatening to pull him under.

How much was too much? If he tried it one last time, a small drink to prime the artistic pump, could he control it? Finish a piece he could call his own? Because if the only way his hands could create anything was to allow someone—something—to use him like he was a goddamned meat puppet, then he was done. Luke had nailed it—some things weren’t worth the cost.

He spun up the little whirlpool again, staring until it wound down.

What would he paint if he knew his next painting would be his last? If he had one last chance to finish? To get it right? The answer rose in Stefan’s mind as if it floated on the surface of the Scotch.

Luke.

He’d paint Luke. Not Luke as the angry conservatory student or the cocky, self-assured lover. But Luke, the honest, driven man, who could walk away from what he loved most, whether it was his career as a painter or his relationship with Stefan, if he thought it was tainted.

“My last painting,” Stefan murmured, opening the bottle. “My last chance to say it all. To say I’m sorry. To say I love you. To say farewell.” He raised the bottle halfway to his lips and froze.

I’m sorry. I love you. Farewell.

Crap.

Stefan pushed himself off the sofa and walked out the cabin door, the bottle still in his hand. Goddamned freaking epiphany. Its timing truly sucked. Halfway to the studio, he broke into a run.

Franklin opened the door at Luke’s furious pounding, his face nearly folded in half with a scowl. He cinched the belt on his red velour bathrobe with a jerk. “You know what time it is?”

“Late.” Luke sidestepped into the entryway and shut the door. “What happened to your brother?”

Franklin thrust out his chin. “He died.”

“Cut the bullshit, Franklin. I need the whole story.”

Franklin squinted at him, no doubt registering Luke’s ill-fitting clothes and less-than-pristine grooming. “Hmmph. Maybe you do.” He hobbled into the living room and lowered himself onto his peach throne.

Luke followed, back throbbing under his bandage, a reminder of how fast the ghost could turn, and willed the older man to buy into his urgency, to Luke’s sense that this whole mountain of crap had reached the avalanche point.

Franklin rested his cane across his knees, clutching it as if it were the panic bar on a roller coaster. “A party. House lit up like Christmas. Supposed to be Edward’s engagement ball.”

Luke stopped pacing. “Engagement? To a woman?”

“Why so shocked? Not like he had much choice. Not in 1945.” Franklin stared past Luke, as if he watched the scene play out on the damask drapes. “That night, Arcoletti drove up to the servant’s entrance in that Chrysler wagon of his.”

“He brought his paintings with him.”

Franklin’s gaze shifted to Luke’s face. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Never mind. Go on.”

“Bastard raged at Edward, rampaged around the servants’ hall with the same old tantrum he threw whenever Edward wasn’t all about him. Edward refused to get riled, never mind that he’d begged Arcoletti time and again to see him as someone with a life of his own. Knew Arcoletti would be sorry afterward. He always was. And Edward would forgive him. Arcoletti never changed, but Edward always forgave.”

Luke backed up until his shoulder blades hit the mantel, pushed by the desolation in Franklin’s voice. Forgiveness. Stefan had always forgiven Luke’s temper, his suspicions, his possessiveness. What had Luke given him in return? Ultimatums and abandonment.

“Edward took Arcoletti outside so the servants wouldn’t hear the row. Out under the tree. The one in Edward, Reading.”

“No.” Luke’s voice was hoarse around the lump in his throat.

Franklin’s jaw worked, and a tear tracked a zigzag path through the creases on his face. “Father’d punished me for something that night. Don’t remember what. I was hiding under the servants’ stairs. I followed Edward outside. Saw the knife in Arcoletti’s hand. Saw him slash Edward’s . . .” Franklin’s voice faded to a cracked whisper. “Saw the whole thing.”

As if Franklin’s story had resurrected the corpse of his nightmare, Luke saw it, too, a jerky silent-film tragedy, out of place in this pastel shell of a room where nothing more frightening than poorly brewed tea should happen.

“Father covered it up. Blamed it on tramps. Convinced the police.”

“Why? Surely he’d want to catch Edward’s murderer.”

Franklin snorted his ancient dragon huff. “You’d think. But he couldn’t abide scandal. So when I found it, I didn’t tell him.”

“Found what?”

“Edward’s suitcase. And his letter.” Franklin swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple sliding under papery skin. “Said he was tired of living a lie. Planned to leave with Arcoletti, under cover of the party fuss. Wasn’t enough for that bastard, though. He killed my brother and drove away. Left Edward lying there. Like he was trash.”

Images merged and splintered like a kaleidoscope in Luke’s brain until only one remained as if lit by a carbon-arc spotlight. A tableau in black and white and blood, the dark twin of the painting in the gallery.

Edward, Dying.

This time, the image had a soundtrack and Luke heard the words. Words too late for Edward, his life draining away under the tree. Too late for Arcoletti, committed to that bonfire on the riverside with Edward’s last breath.

“I chose you,” Luke whispered.

“What?”

Luke’s eyes refocused on the heavy oak mantelpiece under his hands. “‘I chose you.’ That’s what Edward said to Arcoletti. His last words.”

“How do you know?” Franklin’s voice at his shoulder startled him.

“I . . .” Bile burned the back of Luke’s throat at the memory of Arcoletti squatting in his mind. Jesus, if only he could disinfect his brain. Scour the inside of his skull with steel wool and erase the residue. “Arcoletti sort of . . . ah . . . possessed me, too. But he sure as hell didn’t want me to paint.”

Franklin’s eyes glittered in the glow of the Tiffany lamp. “You must be more like him than I thought.”

“Am I?”

“Or else you have something he needs.”

“What could I have?” Luke rubbed his chest, the spot that had burned in his nightmare when Arcoletti realized what he’d done. “I don’t even have Stefan anymore.”

Franklin grabbed his wrist, the grip of his frail-looking hand strong enough to bruise. “What did you say?”

“I said I don’t have Stefan. I expected him to choose me, but he didn’t.” Not back at the conservatory and not tonight. Not that Luke had given him much of a chance. “So I left.” Both times.

“Jealousy.” Franklin’s tone held no surprise. Why should it? He’d had a ringside seat to jealous-asshole behavior when he was an eight-year-old kid. He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “That’s what Arcoletti wants from you.”

“What?”

“Redemption.”

Luke laughed at the satisfaction in Franklin’s voice. “Then he’s shit out of luck. Stefan kicked me out. After I told him about Boardman selling the paintings.”

“And you went?” Franklin harrumphed. “Never figured you for a quitter.”

“This is not about me.” Luke pressed his fist against his forehead and took a deep breath. “I’m begging you,” he said, voice ragged. “Don’t go through with the sale. Don’t make Stefan collateral damage in your vendetta against Arcoletti.”

“Are you fool enough to think that’ll save him?”

Desperation clogged Luke’s throat. “You want me to confront Boardman, I’ll do it. Hell, I’ll enjoy it. He’ll be lucky to sell a fucking postcard after I’m done with him.”

Franklin leaned forward, both hands braced on the head of his cane. “How’d it feel, having Arcoletti invade you? Want to do it again?”

Luke shuddered. “God, no.”

The old man nodded. “No room in one body for two souls.” He pointed a bony finger at Luke. “Ask yourself, Morganstern. What does Arcoletti want from your friend? What’ll he do once he’s got it—and what’ll be left when he’s done?”

Luke remembered how Stefan had seemed more gaunt between one day and the next, as if he was being consumed from the inside. How many times could he play host to that homicidal parasite before nothing remained of Stefan anymore? He needed to get out of that freak-show studio now. Tonight.

Luke froze, hand clutching the mantelpiece, his stomach in free-fall.

Tonight. The dark. The mountain. The ghost. How could he face them a second time in less than a day?

Screw it. Because, God almighty. Stefan. “I’ve got to go.”