An officer pulled her arms behind her back, the metallic click of handcuffs ringing out clearly over the sound of the rain.

“Margaret Whitmore, you are under arrest,” the officer declared, reading her rights as they dragged her to her feet.

I sat in the passenger seat, my hand over my mouth, tears finally spilling over my cheeks.

It was real. She was caught.

But as the officers began to lead her toward the back of the cruiser, Margaret stopped.

She turned her head, her wet hair plastered across her face, and looked straight at our SUV.

Her eyes found mine through the rain-streaked glass.

There was no defeat in her gaze. Only a cold, venomous promise.

She mouthed three words to me.

*You will pay.*

Before I could process the threat, the phone in Richard’s console began to ring again.

It wasn’t Nora.

The screen showed a restricted number.

Richard tapped the receiver, putting it on speaker. “Bennett.”

There was a crackle of static, then a low, unfamiliar male voice spoke.

“You think stopping her changes anything, Mr. Bennett?” the voice asked, cold and steady. “The Whitmore debt doesn’t disappear just because she’s in handcuffs.”