Richard opened the study door, and we stepped out into the hallway.

The pounding downstairs had stopped, replaced by the sharp, terrifying sound of a window shattering.

My breath caught in my throat.

“She broke the glass in the side door,” Richard said, his pace quickening but remaining measured.

We walked down the wide, curved marble staircase.

The air in the foyer was freezing, rushing in through the broken pane of the side entrance.

There, standing in the middle of the elegant foyer, was Margaret.

Her mink coat was dusted with light rain.

In her hand, she held a heavy brass planter she had used to break the glass.

She tossed it onto the Persian rug with a dull thud.

Her eyes swept the foyer, landing instantly on me.

“You pathetic little girl,” Margaret hissed, her voice dripping with venom.

“I knew you were behind this.”

She took a step toward the stairs, but Richard stepped in front of me, his tall frame blocking her path.

“You are trespassing on private property, Mrs. Whitmore,” Richard said, his voice like ice.

“The police are already on their way.”