A man in a dark overcoat stepped inside, his boots wet with melting snow.

He caught Julian’s eye and gave a single, tight nod.

Julian’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He did not answer it immediately.

He kept his eyes on Vanessa, his jaw set in a hard, straight line.

“I am waiting,” Julian said, his voice dropping an octave.

Vanessa looked around the table, searching the faces of her wealthy friends for support.

Every one of them looked down at their plates or stared at the crystal chandeliers.

Nobody wanted to cross Julian Mercer.

I pressed Emma’s face into my apron, hoping to shield her from the tension vibrating through the room.

My cheek burned where Vanessa’s hand had struck me.

My mind raced back to how this nightmare had started.

It had been exactly three weeks ago, on a Tuesday when the wind off Lake Michigan was howling like a wild animal.

My morning had begun with a panicked phone call at five in the morning.

Mrs. Gable, the elderly neighbor who watched Emma for a few dollars a day, had fallen on the icy steps of her porch.