My mother called my six-year-old daughter “a burden” at Christmas dinner, so I took her presents and walked out—but by New Year’s, Grandma was begging for a second chance.

The final evening of the year descended upon Montreal in a blanket of quiet, shimmering snow. The blizzard that had battered the border had passed, leaving behind a sky of crystalline navy blue, dotted with cold, distant stars.

Emma, Claire, and the little girl had been moved to a quiet, historic greystone inn nestled on a tree-lined street near the river. The Canadian federal authorities maintained a discreet two-man detail at the end of the hall, but for the first time in an eternity, there were no guns drawn, no engines idling in the dark, and no panic in their hearts.

In the parlor of the suite, a large brick fireplace crackled with dry birch logs. A miniature decorated pine tree sat on the side table, surrounded by new gifts Claire had slipped out to buy that afternoon: a watercolor painting set, a pair of soft woolen mittens, and an illustrated storybook about an adventurous little red fox.

Emma sat on the plush rug, watching her daughter paint swirling blue and green patterns across a sheet of heavy paper. The child’s laughter was light and effortless, completely untouched by the violence that had unfolded on the airfield only twenty-four hours before.

"Look, Mommy," the girl said, holding up the page. "It’s a house in the woods. And nobody can knock the door down because the trees are keeping guard."

Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. She pulled her daughter onto her lap, burying her nose into her soft hair. "It’s beautiful, baby. The most beautiful house I've ever seen."

Claire walked in from the kitchen carrying three mugs of hot spiced cider. She handed one to Emma and sat down in the armchair by the fire, kicking her boots off with a satisfied groan.

"Victor’s private pilot just signed a full deposition," Claire said quietly, taking a sip from her mug. "He confirmed Victor was planning to stage a mid-air cabin depressurization over the Atlantic after taking the biometric sample. He was never going to wire anyone a single dollar. He intended to wipe out everyone who knew about the 1978 ledger in one fell swoop."

Emma shivered, pulling her daughter closer. "And now?"

"Now, Victor sits in an interrogation bunker under constant suicide watch. The federal attorneys say he will face minimum three consecutive life sentences without parole. He will never see an open runway again."

Claire smiled, raising her mug toward the fire. "To the end of the Vance curse."