The marshal opened the back door of the SUV for me.

“Mrs. Callahan?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” I said.

“Get in,” he said. “We have to move quickly.”

“The situation at the Westwood penthouse is deteriorating.”

I climbed into the cool, leather-scented interior of the vehicle.

The door clicked shut, cutting off the dry Beverly Hills heat.

As the SUV accelerated down the driveway, my phone lit up in my hand.

It was an alert from the security system at our Westwood penthouse.

The silent alarm had been triggered.

A live feed showed the interior of the master bedroom.

The drawers were pulled out, clothes scattered across the floor.

In the corner of the frame, Chloe Vance was shoving stacks of cash into a silver suitcase.

Julian was on his phone, pacing furiously in front of the window.

The screen flickered, and then the camera went dark.

The SUV accelerated through the iron gates of the Callahan estate.

I looked back once through the tinted rear window.

Victoria stood on the stone terrace, her white linen suit a sharp contrast against the dark green ivy of the mansion.