The iron poker clattered against the concrete floor as he dropped it to grab his phone.

He didn’t answer it.

He pressed the side button to silence the ringer, but the screen kept flashing Vale’s name in the dark.

He pushed me through the doorway into the cold kitchen of the ranch house.

The air inside smelled of dust, dry rot, and old copper.

“Where are the keys to the safe?” he whispered, his face inches from mine.

His breath smelled of stale coffee and sour whiskey.

“There is no safe in the barn, Mark,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“You’re lying to protect her,” he spat, shaking me.

“Abigail didn’t trust you,” I said. “She knew about the offshore accounts in Nassau.”

He froze, his fingers tightening on my arm.

“She told you about those?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“She didn’t just tell me,” I said. “She kept the transaction logs.”

Outside, a gravelly voice echoed through the megaphone again.

“Mark Darcy, we have the perimeter secured. Step out of the house immediately.”

Shadows moved across the kitchen wall as headlights swept the front yard.