He grabbed my arm.

His grip was tight, his fingers cold.

“He’s going to file it tomorrow morning,” Alden said. “If he does, the sale to Cypress Meridian goes through, and the state buyout money goes directly into Graham’s offshore account.”

“We have to stop him,” I said.

“You don’t understand,” Alden said. “Graham isn’t working alone. Celeste has connections. And there is someone else.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Marisol Keene,” Alden said. “The woman who offered to buy the lower pasture. She isn’t just a wealthy equestrian.”

“What is she?” I asked.

Alden opened his mouth to answer, but his headlights suddenly caught something in the rearview mirror.

Another set of headlights was approaching fast down the long gravel driveway of Blackthorn Ridge.

The lights bounced violently as the vehicle sped toward the stone bridge.

“It’s Graham’s truck,” Alden said, his voice rising in panic.

He shoved the car into gear.

“Alden, wait,” I said.

The high beams of the truck flooded the interior of the sedan, blinding us.

The truck didn’t slow down.

It swung sideways, blocking the narrow stone bridge entirely, its tires screeching on the wet gravel.