She pointed the silver lighter toward me.

“I needed real capital,” she said. “And the banks wouldn’t lend to a Langford.”

“But they would lend to the sole survivor of the tragedy,” I whispered.

Beatrice smiled, a look of genuine pride crossing her face.

“Precisely,” she said. “The poor, scarred Audrey.”

“You kept me alive,” I said, the realization settling like lead in my stomach.

“Of course I did,” Beatrice said. “Your signature on those trust documents was worth millions.”

She splashed another puddle of gasoline onto the wooden stage behind her.

“I kept you tucked away in that private clinic, paying the bills with the very loans I took out in your name,” she said. “You were my golden goose.”

“And now?” Liam asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“Now, the audits are starting,” Beatrice said, her eyes shifting to Holt. “And people are asking too many questions.”

She raised the jerrycan, emptying the last of the fuel onto the debris around Chloe.

“A tragic accident,” Beatrice said. “The scarred girl returns to the scene of her trauma, and a faulty wire finishes the job.”