In the guest room down the hall, Eleanor Price sat quietly, her hands clasped over her knees.

She had been staying with us since the arrest, terrified of what Richard might do once he realized she had helped me.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft, metallic chime.

Arthur Vance stepped out first, shaking the water from his folded black umbrella.

Behind him came my father.

Richard Bennett did not look like a man who had spent the night in a federal holding cell.

He carried himself with the same rigid authority he had used to rule our family and his business for decades.

His silver hair was combed back, slick with rain and grease.

“Claire,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

“Get out of my home, Richard,” Gabriel said, stepping between us.

My father did not look at Gabriel.

His eyes remained locked on me, assessing me like an unpaid invoice.

“This is not your concern, Vale,” Richard said.

“Everything that happens in this room is my concern,” Gabriel replied, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.