The Collector by Nora Roberts

flatten you, but . . . She loves her daughters, but Oliver was the center for her.”
    â€œIs someone with her?”
    â€œPortia lives in London, and Olympia’s married again. Rick—no, that was her first husband, before my father.” He rubbed a space between his eyebrows. “Nigel. Decent guy, from what I can tell. He’s with her, but she’s shattered so it ended up I should do what needs to be done for a private service, probably on the compound.”
    â€œYou have a compound.”
    â€œMy father does. The press is already getting ugly, so it’s just as well they all stay away until it’s time.”
    While you’re in the middle of it, she thought. “Are reporters after you?”
    He drank some wine, deliberately relaxed his shoulders. “Half brother, one of several halfs and steps. It hasn’t been that bad, especially since I keep a fairly low profile otherwise.”
    â€œNot so low when you were dating the dancer.” She smiled a little, hoping to lighten what must be a terrible weight. “Google and Julie.”
    â€œWell, that was mostly about her.”
    â€œDo you think so?” She sat back. “Successful artist with deep, deep family pockets and a swashbuckling air.”
    â€œSwashbuckling?”
    Now she shrugged, pleased she’d amused him. “That’s how it strikes me. I think it was just as much about you, and I hope the press leaves you alone. Do you have anyone to help you?”
    â€œHelp me what?”
    â€œMake the arrangements? With a family that big, that spread out, it’s a lot. Not even considering the circumstances, and with both his parents out of the country. I know it’s not my place, but I could help if you need it. I’m good at making calls, following instructions.”
    He looked back at her, into those big dark eyes, saw only compassion. “Why would you offer that?”
    â€œI’m sorry, it really isn’t my place.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant, at all. It’s kind, very kind of you.”
    â€œMaybe it’s the window watching, or the writing, but I have a habit of putting myself in someone else’s place. Or maybe the habit is why I do the other. Either way, in your place I’d be overwhelmed. So if there’s something, just let me know.”
    Before he could speak, before he could think what to say, his phone rang. “Sorry.” He lifted a hip to pull it out of his back pocket. “It’s the police. No, stay,” he said when she started to stand up. “Please.”
    â€œDetective Fine.” He listened a moment. “No, actually I’m not home, but I can come to you or . . . Hold on a minute. They have something,” he told Lila. “The cops want to talk to me again. I can go there, or I can have them come here. They went by my place looking for me.”
    She’d offered to help, hadn’t she? Lila reminded herself. She’d meant it, so here was something she could do. “You can tell them to come here. It’s okay.”
    He kept his eyes on hers as he lifted the phone again. “I’m with LilaEmerson, where she’s staying. You have the address. Yeah, I can explain that when you get here.”
    He slid the phone back into his pocket. “They didn’t like me being here, connecting with you. I could hear that loud and clear.”
    Lila took a contemplative sip of wine. “They’re going to wonder if we knew each other before, and if we somehow cooked all this up, and you killed your brother, I covered for you. Then they’ll realize that doesn’t work on many levels.”
    â€œIt doesn’t?”
    â€œNo, because you wouldn’t have invited them here, with me, so they’d have this to wonder about. But more, I called nine-one-one seconds after she fell. How is that covering for anyone? Why call at all? Why not let some bystander call?