The photograph was clear, taken from the dark tree line directly opposite the massive stone pillars of Richard’s estate.

“Richard,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He kept his eyes on the winding road but tilted his head slightly toward me. “What is it, Emily?”

I held the phone out so he could see the screen.

He glanced down quickly, his jaw tightening as he took in the image and the short line of text.

His hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, the leather creaking under his palms.

“Who sent it?” he asked, his voice calm but cold.

“It is an unknown number,” I said. “Margaret has people watching your gate already.”

“The gate is reinforced steel, Emily,” Richard said, turning the car onto a quieter, darker road. “And my security team is the best in the state.”

“But they followed us,” I said, looking back at the empty, wet road behind us. “Or they were already waiting there.”

“We are five minutes away,” he said. “No one is getting inside.”

We turned onto a narrow road lined with towering hemlocks that blocked out the sky.