We got into my SUV.

I turned the key, and the engine roared to life.

As we pulled out of the garage and onto the rain-slicked streets of Seattle, the radio was playing a soft jazz station.

I switched it off, the silence inside the car absolute.

“We have to take the bridge,” Grant said, pointing toward the interstate. “It will be faster.”

“The traffic is heavy,” I said, checking my mirrors. “Everyone is heading home.”

“He knows we are coming, Amelia,” Grant said, his voice barely audible over the sound of the windshield wipers. “He expects you to run to Bellevue.”

“I don’t care what he expects,” I said, pressing my foot down on the accelerator.

The city lights blurred in the wet glass of the window.

I thought of Lily’s face in the photograph, her small hands clasped in her lap.

She had spent her whole life surrounded by the Harrow wealth, but she had never been safe.

Not from the lies, and not from the man who ruled that family with an iron fist.