"Are you going to shoot at them?"

I'm staring at the gun in a kind of horrified fascination.

"If I have to."

I hear a shot, but it's not the gun on the seat beside Max. They are shooting at us from the car behind us.

"Dammit," Max says. "They're trying to shoot out a tire. They've realized they can't catch us."

I think Max is heading to downtown Miami, where there are people and cars and safety. But instead he cuts the wheel sharply and we skid into a turn, the car careening so much I'm afraid we really will flip over. But he rights the car and I realize we are on old Rt. 41, also known as the Tamiami Trail. It used to be the direct route between Miami on the East Coast of Florida and Napes on the Gulf Coast, but since the interstate opened it's pretty much deserted, especially at night.

Max hits the accelerator again just as another shot is fired, the bullet pinging off the rear bumper.

"What can I do?" I ask him.

He glances over. "Sit up for a second and take the wheel."

I'm steering the car down the middle of the two-lane highway, terrified that we are going to run right over an alligator - which is what this route is known for - and either flip the car or crash into the undergrowth of the Everglades and be sitting ducks for whoever is in the SUV behind us.

Max picks up the gun, turns in his seat and leans out the window, firing three shots in rapid succession.

He swings back in his seat and takes the wheel again. "I'm pretty sure I hit the windshield with all three. I may have taken out the driver."

I turn around and look back. Max hasn't slowed down, but behind us I can see headlights pointing off to the side, and the SUV doesn't appear to be moving.

Max slows down to slightly less than breakneck speed.

"Are you going to go back?"

"No."

"What if someone is seriously hurt?"

Max looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "Whoever is in that car, and I'm betting there were at least two of them, is armed and they were trying to kill us. So no, I'm not going back."

I stare at the dashboard.

"There's ghost town a few miles ahead, Hadley. We can take another route back from there."

When I don't answer, he looks over at me again.

"Okay, fine." Max picks up his phone and calls Gabe, gives him the location and instructions to have someone make an anonymous call to 911 and report an accident.

"Satisfied?"

"I don't understand why we couldn't just call 911."

"They record those calls, Hadley. I may have killed the driver. If so, I don't want the Miami police or the FBI to know I was anywhere near there."

"Oh." I feel stupid now. "But Max, it was self-defense."

"You really think that matters?"

"I'm a witness."

"You're known to have been in a romantic relationship with me, and you're my lawyer."

I think about that for a moment. Considering that Special Agent Williams has already targeted me as a "dirty lawyer," I guess Max has a point about how far my credibility would go. Then I have another thought.

"But a lot of people must have seen us at the restaurant, if anyone is looking into this."

"True, but we left a good while before the accident occurred. And our server would be able to confirm that. No one knows we took a little detour. Plus, the restaurant isn't on Rt. 41, and there's no logical reason why anyone would think we were traveling that way instead of going directly back to Miami after dinner."

"You're right. I'm just not thinking clearly." How did we go so quickly from fooling around in the car, to almost being run off the road, our lives put in danger, and possibly killing someone? I can't wrap my brain around it.

"You're doing fine. If you hadn't been able to take the wheel, they might have succeeded in shooting out a tire and we'd be the ones who spun off the road with our car disabled."

"That reminds me. At least one bullet hit the car. What are you gong to do about that?"

"Not a problem. My uncle runs a bunch of chop shops. I'll take it there after I drop you off and they'll have it fixed in no time. Or dismantled and sold for parts. Cars are easily replaceable."

But you're not is the unspoken part of the sentence.

After what happened tonight, I'm afraid Max is never going to want to risk spending time with me again, and putting me in danger. We both know it wasn't me the goons in the SUV were after. I would have just been collateral damage.

By the time he finally drops me off in front of my grandparents' house, the adrenaline from being in danger has faded and all I want to do is sleep for about 10 hours. It's been a hell of a day.

Max leans over and kisses me softly. "I'd walk you in, but maybe it's best not to."

"That's okay." I straighten my clothes, remember at the last moment to wiggle back into my discarded panties, then reach behind the seat for my jacket and my purse.

"I'll let you know what I find out, about the attack tonight and about your friend Dylan," Max says, and I nod.

"Do you think my grandparents are safe?"

He nods. "You weren't the target."

"Probably not, but don't forget it was me that got assaulted in the club in New York."

"That's a good point. Hadley," he says, reaching over and touching my chin, turning my face toward him as I'm about to get out of the car, "if anything unusual happens - anything at all - you need to call me immediately. And if you can't reach me, call Gabe. Understood?"

I don't even get my back up at him issuing orders. I'm too tired and recently terrified to care, so I just say I will.

The house is quiet, and I assume my grandparents have gone to bed early. Thank heavens. My grandfather knew I was meeting with Max to inform him about the security breach on the art gallery files. The last thing I need right now is to have him see me come in wearing rumpled clothes and looking like I've just been having sex in a Ferrari then took part in a high-speed car chase.

I don't even stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. I just go quietly up the stairs to my room and change into an oversize t-shirt, then brush my teeth. Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror seems surreal. Like I don't even recognize the girl staring back. How did I end up in love with a crime boss and getting shot at as we speed down a deserted two-lane highway in the Everglades? It's not at all what I expected when I agreed to move to Miami hoping to unravel family secrets.

It's only when I've tucked myself safely into bed under the soft comforter and turned out the lights that I begin to shake uncontrollably.

* * *

The next morning I'm feeling more like myself again. My grandmother seems rested and it's one of her good days. When I come downstairs she's in the kitchen with my grandfather talking about an upcoming event at the garden club while he makes French toast. If I put out of my mind for a moment that there is no upcoming event at the garden club - at least not one that she's been involved in planning - things almost seem normal.

Well, normal if men in expensive business suits double as short-order breakfast cooks. He's wearing an apron over his business attire, and I noticed his suit jacket hanging in the hallway when I came downstairs. The apron is small on him, with ruffles around the edges, and likely belongs to my grandmother.

"Good morning," my grandfather says as I walk in. He's always careful not to use my name in front of my grandmother.

"Laura!" she says. "Did you get in last night?" She turns to my grandfather. "Andy, why didn't you tell me our girl was home?"

He doesn't answer, but instead walks over and gives me a hug. "It's good to see you."

"Make enough for three," my grandmother says, gesturing toward the egg-dipped bread frying in the oversized cast iron skillet.

He gets out two more slices of bread and dips them in the egg mixture in the stoneware bowl and then adds them to the others on the stove.

"It's the nutmeg," my grandmother tells me. "That's your dad's secret ingredient." She frowns, studying me. "Why are you so dressed up, Laura? Are you going someplace?"

My grandfather answers, "She's coming into the office with me this morning, Tricia."

"Oh, that's so nice." She turns to me. "You know your father and I are hoping you'll choose law school and work with him when you graduate. That would make us both so happy,"

"I know," I say quietly around the lump in my throat.

"Now, now, Tricia, plenty of time for the girl to decide what she wants to do with her life."

Then her mind seems to leap some years ahead. "That nice boy, Brandon. He's going to be a lawyer and work with your father when the two of you get married."

Andrew interrupts the conversation to serve the French toast with a flourish, and my grandmother is distracted. Now I'm wondering again what happened. Had my mom originally planned to go to law school, then changed her mind? Or did her parents just hope she'd choose that career path?

My father apparently had plans to join the firm when he graduated, but he dropped out in his last semester. What happened?

My grandfather and my father both refuse to discuss it. The answer is somewhere in my grandmother's memories, and I just keep waiting for more clues to randomly pop out. If I can get even part of the story, then I might be able to use it to get my grandfather to tell me the rest.

I pour a generous amount of pure maple syrup on my French toast, while my grandmother happily eats her breakfast, lost again in her own world.

When Olivia walks into the kitchen, my grandmother looks puzzled like she's trying to place who this woman is in her life.

Olivia doesn't give her time to get upset.

"Patricia, how are you? I was hoping you could give me some more tips today about my flower garden. You've been so helpful."

My grandmother's face brightens. "Yes, yes of course. You're new to the garden club. Will you join us for breakfast?"

I've noticed that Olivia never lies to my grandmother, but she gives her suggestions she can latch onto. It's my grandmother who then fills in the blanks that allow her to remain content. To continue to feel safe in her world. It seems like a kind approach.

When my grandfather and I put our dishes in the sink and head out to work together, Patricia and Olivia are still sitting at the table, lingering over their coffee and French toast, and talking about flowers.

"Ride with me today, Hadley," he says as he takes his car keys out of his pocket. He's always careful to secure them, and the little basket on the foyer table no longer holds the keys to any moving vehicles, since he's afraid Patrica could slip out the door and decide to go for a drive herself.

I agree, because we might as well get the conversation over with now, instead of waiting until we are at the office.

He pushes the button to unlock the dignified Mercedes, and I get in. My grandfather carefully hangs his suit jacket in the back and then gets behind the wheel. As usual, he is immaculately groomed and dressed, and I wonder how he manages it on what is often so little sleep. And always so much worry.

"Well," he says, as we pull out of the circular driveway and head for the ferry, "what happened when you met with Max Bennett last night?