But Wyatt was already running up the steps, and I was right behind him.

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a painful reminder of what they had already done to me.

We reached the porch just as Harper threw her shoulder against the door.

The deadbolt hadn’t fully clicked into place.

The door flew open with a loud crack, splintering the wooden frame.

The smell of lemon wood polish and stale air greeted us, mixed with the sharp, chemical stench of gasoline.

We followed the sound of heavy footsteps rushing up the grand curved staircase.

“Upstairs!” Harper said, her gun still raised.

We took the steps two at a time, my knees aching from the lingering injuries of the assault.

At the end of the second-floor hallway, the door to my father’s study stood wide open.

The bright fluorescent light from inside spilled onto the Persian rug in the corridor.

We burst through the doorway and stopped.

My mother, Eleanor, was sitting calmly behind the massive mahogany desk.

Melanie stood near the window, clutching a glass of amber liquid, her fingers trembling.