UNTIL MY DYING CALL UNCOVERED A DEADLY CONSPIRACY THAT WOULD COST THEM EVERYTHING.

At 8:30 the next morning, Marcus brought me a hot cup of black coffee and a fresh encrypted laptop.

I was sitting in an armchair in the safehouse, color slowly returning to my cheeks. My father had already left to coordinate with his contacts at the Cook County medical examiner's office.

"Audio feed is live," Marcus said, tapping his headset. "Ethan’s study."

I slipped on my headphones.

The audio crackled, followed by the sound of ice clinking against glass.

*“Stop pacing, Jennifer, you’re making me dizzy,”* Ethan’s voice snapped through the speakers. He sounded stressed, the smooth, velvet tone he used in public completely gone.

*“I’m pacing because she broke a pitcher over my face, Ethan!”* Jennifer’s voice shrieked back. Even through the microphone, the fury in her tone was palpable. *“She knew! I'm telling you, she looked right through me before she struck! She knew what was in that syringe!”*

*“Don't be ridiculous,”* Diane’s sharp, haughty voice interrupted. *“Claire was a spoiled, sheltered trust-fund baby. She didn't know a syringe from a thermometer. She was delirious. The tox screen report Dr. Sterling forged showed her brain was starved of oxygen.”*

*“Then where is she, Diane?!”* Jennifer yelled. *“Dr. Sterling called Ethan an hour ago! He said she was found dead in the stairwell of the west wing! If she was dead, why didn’t I get to finish it? Why did she attack me?”*

*“Who cares why she attacked you?”* Ethan laughed—that same cold, dismissive laugh he had let out at my bedside yesterday. *“She’s in the morgue, Jen. Sterling signed the death certificate. The autopsy is waived per my instructions as next of kin, citing religious objections. Her body is being prepped for immediate cremation on Friday morning.”*

I closed my eyes, my jaw clenching until my teeth ached. *Immediate cremation.* He wanted to turn my body to ash before anyone could test my organs for heavy metals.

*“And the money?”* Diane asked. Her voice was greed incarnate. *“Did you contact the Hanover Life representative?”*

*“Filed the preliminary claim online twenty minutes ago,”* Ethan said proudly. *“Three point two million from Hanover. Another one point five from her personal checking accounts once probate clears. And the deed to the Oak Brook estate defaults entirely to me under the survivorship clause.”*

*“Our house,”* Diane sighed happily. *“I'm having Claire's tacky mother's antique rugs burned this weekend. We'll redo the entire main floor in white marble.”*

*“Not so fast, Diane,”* Jennifer’s voice turned icy. *“We had a deal. Ethan promised me twenty percent of the cash payout upfront so I could buy into that boutique clinic in Scottsdale. I took the risk. I got the thallium from my ex-coworker. I administered the doses. If I don't see my six hundred thousand the second that wire clears, neither of you will enjoy that marble floor.”*

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Marcus leaned over my shoulder, watching the audio waveforms spike. "There it is," he whispered. "The crack in the foundation."

*“Are you threatening my son, Jennifer?”* Diane hissed.

*“I'm stating facts, Diane,”* Jennifer retorted. *“I gave up my career for this. I have a three-inch gash across my cheek that’s going to leave a scar. Don’t treat me like hired help.”*

*“Nobody is treating you like hired help, baby,”* Ethan said, his voice instantly shifting back into manipulative charm. *“You’ll get every penny. But we have to stick together. The funeral is Thursday afternoon. A small, private service. Just family and a few close friends. Once Claire is in the ground—or rather, once her urn is on the mantel—we’re home free.”*

I pulled the headphones off and looked up at Marcus.

"The funeral is Thursday?" I asked.

"Forty-eight hours from now," Marcus confirmed. "He's rushing it so he can submit the final burial certificate to the insurance underwriters."

"Good," I said, a dark smile spreading across my face. "Ethan likes surprises. Let's send him a floral arrangement."

"What kind?"