“Look at her, Ethan. She works in a warehouse. She lives in a slum.”

“Because you broke her,” Ethan said.

He took a step toward his mother.

Eleanor did not back down, but her eyes flickered with a brief flash of fear.

“We did what was necessary to preserve the Harrison name,” she said.

“You were meant for greatness, not for a girl from the docks,” she said.

Ethan looked down at the burner phone again.

He scrolled to the very last message, received just two days before my accident at the warehouse.

*Your time in Chicago is up. Move them out of the state, or I will make sure the state takes them.*

The message was signed with his father’s initials: R.H.

Ethan’s hand shook slightly, but his grip on the phone remained tight.

“Where is he?” Ethan asked.

“Your father is at the lake house, preparing for the charity gala,” Eleanor said.

“He is busy, Ethan. Do not disturb him with this nonsense.”

“This isn’t nonsense,” Ethan said. “This is a crime.”

He turned to the nurse who was still waiting by the door.