MY GRANDMOTHER GAVE ME $500 FOR CHRISTMAS. THEN SHE LOOKED AT MY MOTHER AND SAID FIVE WORDS THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING.

"Step away from the old woman, Blackwood."

Julian’s voice cut through the howling wind like an axe through frozen pine. He stood framed in the splintered doorway of the kitchen, his rifle leveled dead-center at Blackwood's chest. I stepped in right behind him, raising my rifle toward the two armed contractors flanking the table.

The guards reacted instantly, swinging their barrels up, but Julian didn't flinch.

"One twitch of your finger, Blackwood," Julian said in a voice as calm and flat as a frozen lake, "and this 30-06 round punches a hole through your spine before your men can clear their safeties."

Victor Blackwood slowly turned his head. A slow, chilling smile spread across his thin lips, stretching the scar tissue across his forehead. He didn't look afraid; he looked amused.

"Julian," Blackwood said, tasting the name on his tongue. "The dutiful son. The one who spent forty years trying to piece together a family that was rotten before he was even conceived."

"Shut your mouth," Julian snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Julian... Nola..." Ruth groaned from the chair, straining against the biting wire that bound her arms. Her face twisted in agony. "Get out... it's a trap... he wants you both here..."

"Quiet, old woman," Blackwood murmured without looking at her. He kept his dark eyes locked on Julian. "You think you're saving her, boy? Did she ever tell you the truth about that Christmas eve forty years ago? Did she tell you who took the money first?"

"Arthur Vance took the money," I shouted, my hands shaking on the rifle stock. "Arthur sold the children!"

"Arthur was an errand boy!" Blackwood barked, his voice suddenly thunderous, echoing off the rafters. "Your grandmother didn't lose three daughters to an abduction syndicate. She *selected* which one was disposable! She kept Clara because Clara was compliant. She gave up the twins to Arthur for fifty thousand dollars to pay off her husband's gambling debts! And when that wasn't enough, she came to me directly with the third baby—Maeve—and bargained for her own safety!"

"That's a lie!" Julian shouted, a crack of anguish breaking his iron control.

"Ask her!" Blackwood yelled, pointing a manicured finger at Ruth. "Ask her about the green tackle box! Ask her what was hidden beneath the false bottom!"

I looked at Ruth. My grandmother wouldn't meet my eyes. She let her head drop to her chest, a silent, agonizing sob racking her frail shoulders.

"Ruth?" Julian whispered, his aim wavering just an inch. "Tell him he's lying."

"She can't," Blackwood chuckled softly, his voice dropping back into that horrifying, velvet purr. "Because Maeve didn't die. Maeve didn't disappear into a black market brothel or a labor camp. I raised her, Julian. I educated her. I gave her the Vance empire. And she hates this bloodline more than I ever could."

From the shadows of the hallway behind Ruth’s chair, the floorboards creaked.

A tall, elegant woman stepped out into the kitchen's dim light. She wore a tailored wool coat, her raven hair cut sharp against her jawline. Her high cheekbones and striking slate-gray eyes were a terrifying, mirror image of Clara’s.

She held a nickel-plated revolver in her gloved hand, pointed directly at the back of Ruth’s skull.