“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he strained against my weight. “This goes far beyond your sister.”

I slipped my hand into his inner coat pocket and pulled out the cold metal casing of the silver drive.

The weight of it felt solid in my palm.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I said.

I applied pressure to his wrist, forcing him further into the grass.

“Who paid you to stage the accident?” I asked.

He let out a dry, ragged laugh, his cheek pressed against the wet dirt.

“It wasn’t just about the money,” he muttered. “Your sister had no choice.”

“Explain,” I demanded.

“Whitmore,” he gasped, his shoulder tightening under my knee. “He has the signatures. He had the photos of your father’s cabin.”

I tightened my grip on his arm. “What photos?”

“The ones from the night of the crash,” Vance said. “The fuel lines weren’t cut by accident.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my grip tight.

“He targeted Rachel first,” Vance whispered. “He told her he’d release the forensic reports to the maritime board if she didn’t cooperate.”