The room seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant.

Outside, a heavy drop of rain struck the floor-to-ceiling glass window, followed by another.

“What do you mean, lose the baby?” I asked, my voice barely louder than the wind outside.

Sloane swallowed hard, her throat moving visibly.

“He had a plan,” she said.

“He said he needed my interior design firm’s accounts to make it work,” she said.

“To launder the money?” Margaret asked.

“To move it,” Sloane corrected, her voice trembling.

“He said the Crane trust was holding his money hostage,” Sloane said.

“He said he was only taking what he was owed for putting up with your family for five years,” she said.

I felt a cold sweat break out across my forehead.

The ache in my back flared again, tighter this time, wrapping around my abdomen like a band.

I held my breath until the sensation passed, keeping my eyes locked on Sloane.

“How did my child fit into his financial schemes, Sloane?” I asked.

Sloane looked down at her polished leather boots.

“He needed the trust distribution,” Sloane said.