Julian had been Claire’s cousin.

He had delivered the eulogy at her funeral.

“He helped her hide the money,” I said.

“And he helped her cover up the neglect of the children,” Pierce added.

“He signed the non-disclosure agreements for the household staff.”

We reached the private airfield ten minutes later.

The chain-link fence was topped with barbed wire, gray against the white snow.

A twin-engine private jet sat on the tarmac, its engines whining as they spooled up.

Two police cruisers had parked directly in front of the aircraft’s nose gear.

Their blue and red lights painted the snow in bright, flashing colors.

A woman in a white fur coat was arguing with a deputy near the boarding stairs.

It was Vanessa.

Beside her stood Julian Vance, holding a black leather briefcase.

We got out of the car.

The wind was loud, carrying the smell of burning jet fuel.

“Turn off the engines!” Pierce shouted through a megaphone.

Vanessa saw me.

Her face contorted with anger.

“Elena!” she screamed over the noise of the turbines.

“Tell these men who I am!”