My father and brother poisoned my wine for an $8 million inheritance—so I switched glasses, and watched him collapse beside the Thanksgiving turkey fifteen minutes later.

My knuckles went white against the grab handle of Caldwell’s squad car as the speedometer climbed past ninety miles an hour.

I dialed Maya’s number over and over.

*Ring.*

*Voicemail.*

*“Hey, this is Maya! Leave a message or text me if it’s urgent!”*

“Pick up,” I whispered, slamming my fist into the dashboard. “Maya, pick up the damn phone!”

“We’re two minutes out, Julian,” Caldwell said, both hands locked on the wheel, weaving through suburban arterial traffic. “Keep your head on. Reid is desperate. When men like Reid Tolland realize their money and their father can't protect them, they become cornered rats.”

I didn't care about Reid’s psychology. Maya was an innocent bystander. She was an art restorer who had spent Thanksgiving morning packing food boxes at the community kitchen before planning to meet me later that night. She knew nothing about the poisoned wine. She knew nothing about August’s murder.

Caldwell cut the siren three blocks away.

We coasted to a halt at the curb outside my brick brownstone. The heavy oak front door was slightly ajar. A splintered gouge marred the lock.

“Stay behind me,” Caldwell commanded, drawing his Glock 21 and holding it in a two-handed low-ready stance. Detective Vance pulled up behind us, weapon drawn, circling toward the fire escape.

I didn't stay behind him.

I ignored Caldwell’s hiss of protest and pushed through the front entryway.

The foyer was dead quiet. The scent of vanilla candles—Maya’s favorite—lingered in the hallway. But beneath it was another scent: the metallic tang of fresh blood.

“Maya?” my voice echoed up the stairwell.

“Julian!”

A scream came from the third-floor loft.

I bolted up the stairs three at a time. Caldwell was right behind me, his heavy boots thudding against the runners.

I kicked open the loft door.

The living room had been torn apart. Bookshelves were tipped, canvases slashed, couch cushions gutted. Reid stood in the center of the room. He looked unhinged. His expensive dinner suit from Thanksgiving was filthy, his shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, a heavy snub-nosed revolver clutched in his trembling right hand.

He had his left arm wrapped around Maya’s throat.

Maya was crying, her lip split and bleeding, her eyes wide with terror as Reid pressed the barrel of the revolver hard against her temple.

“Drop the gun, Reid!” Caldwell shouted from the doorway, leveling his weapon.

“Back up! Back the hell up or I blow her head off!” Reid shrieked, dragging Maya back toward the French balcony doors. “Drop your weapons! Both of you! Drop them now!”

“Reid, let her go,” I said, stepping forward, raising both hands empty. “Look at me. Look at me, you coward. Your fight is with me.”

“You ruined everything!” Reid screamed, tears and spit spraying from his mouth. “We had it planned! Dad had the whole thing set up! You were supposed to die at the table! The trust would have cleared on Monday! We were going to pay off the cartel in Macau, we were going to keep the firm!”

“And what about Grandpa?” I asked, keeping my voice chillingly steady as I took half an inch forward. “Did you plan his murder too?”

Reid’s eyes twitched wildly. “Grandpa was a stubborn old prick! He was going to let us drown! Dad gave him the tea, but I held his shoulders down until he stopped kicking! You hear me, Julian?! I watched his eyes turn gray!”

Maya sobbed, gagging against his forearm.

“And you think killing Maya gets you out of this?” I asked.

“It gives me leverage!” Reid yelled. “You have the bearer bonds! You have the codes to August’s Swiss accounts! Eleanor texted me from the airfield! The trust requires August's physical cipher keys—and you took them from the safety deposit box!”

He cocked the revolver hammer. The sharp, mechanical *click* sounded like an executioner's bell.