It was the emergency shortcut I had set up months ago.

A faint, double-pulse vibration buzzed against my thigh.

The phone was calling for help.

“Megan, get over here,” Ethan commanded, his eyes darting toward the stairs.

Megan didn’t move.

She stood near the old cedar wardrobe, her hands pressed tightly against her stomach.

“Megan, I said come here,” Ethan repeated, his voice cracking.

“Who is downstairs, Ethan?” Megan asked.

Her voice was surprisingly quiet.

“I told you, it’s the people from the city,” Ethan said, his hand shaking as he gripped the gun. “The ones who financed the search. Now get over here.”

“You told me we were doing this to protect Waverly Lane,” Megan said.

She took a slow step backward, away from him.

“We are,” Ethan said. “Once she signs the quitclaim, the property is ours. We can clear the debt and build the house we talked about.”

“With Aunt Claire’s help?” Megan asked.

“Yes,” Ethan said, nodding quickly. “Claire is backing us. You know that.”

“Claire doesn’t care about us,” Megan said, her eyes filling with tears. “She only cares about keeping Rose’s name off the deed.”