On Mother’s Day, my mom looked me straight in the eye and said, “I wish you’d never been my daughter.” I stood up, answered, “Then live as if you never had one,” and drove away in my SUV. By the next morning, my phone was ringing nonstop—and suddenly, everyone wanted me to answer.

My mind raced in terrifying circles as we drove back toward Charlotte.

"It doesn't make sense," Daniel said, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as the highway rolled beneath us. "Martin has been on our side from day one. He helped you shut Diane down. He helped you get the lockbox back. Why would he do all that if he was stealing from the trust twenty years ago?"

"Because he thought the trust was dead and buried," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "He thought Diane had lost the paperwork. When I brought him the hospital papers, he saw an opportunity to control the narrative. If he helped me take Diane down, I would never look at *him*."

"We don't know that for sure," Daniel urged, though the doubt in his voice was unmistakable. "We need to confront him with the documents. We need an independent audit."

"We can't go to his office," I said, clutching my phone. "If he knows we found the secondary ledger, he could destroy whatever records remain."

It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening by the time we reached the outskirts of Charlotte. Rain had begun to fall, a steady, slick downpour that turned the highway into a ribbon of black glass. Daniel’s phone buzzed on the dashboard console.

It was Martin Vance.

Daniel glanced at me. I shook my head sharply. "Don't answer. Not yet."

The phone stopped ringing. A second later, a text flashed on the screen:

*Emily, Daniel—urgent development regarding the DA’s office and Ryan. Do not go home. Meet me at the parking garage behind my office immediately.*

"He knows," I breathed. "Sarah Higgins must have pulled the files from the county archive, and Martin’s office gets notified whenever an inquiry is made on that trust number."

"We're going to the police precinct," Daniel said firmly, switching on his turn signal to take the exit toward uptown. "We're not meeting him in some dark garage."

We took the ramp, the wipers slapping rhythmically against the glass. The traffic was sparse in the torrential rain.

As we slowed down at the red light at the bottom of the off-ramp, I glanced in the side-view mirror.

A dark, heavy SUV had pulled off the ramp behind us. It didn't have its headlights on—only its amber running lights, cutting through the sheets of rain like two predatory eyes.

The light turned green. Daniel accelerated. The SUV accelerated with us, matching our speed turn for turn through the slick city streets.

"Daniel," I said, panic rising in my throat. "That car is following us."

"I see him," Daniel said, his voice tense. He turned sharply down a one-way street, trying to lose them, but the SUV stayed glued to our bumper.

Suddenly, as we passed beneath the shadow of a construction scaffolding near the downtown rail yard, a second vehicle—a beat-up sedan—swerved out from an alleyway, blocking the lane ahead.

Daniel slammed on the brakes. Our car skidded on the wet asphalt, stopping inches from the sedan’s rusted bumper.

Behind us, the dark SUV pulled up tight, boxing us in completely.

The driver’s side door of the front sedan opened. But it wasn't Ryan who stepped out into the rain.

It was an older man in an expensive trench coat, holding an umbrella in one hand and a thick manila folder in the other. He walked slowly toward my window, his shoes splashing through the puddles.

He tapped on my glass with the heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger.

Daniel reached into the center console, but the man didn't pull a weapon. Instead, he leaned down to the glass, his face illuminated by the amber glow of the streetlamp.

It was Martin Vance.

He didn't look angry. He looked terrified.

He pressed the manila folder flat against my window so I could see the label stamped in red across the top: *NORTH CAROLINA STATE BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION — WHITMORE HOMICIDE FILE (UNRESOLVED).*