Eight months pregnant with twins, I refused to hand my sister-in-law their $150,000 trust fund—so she punched my stomach, unaware the camera above her was recording.

The parking garage beneath County General smelled of damp concrete and exhaust fumes.

Detective Harris had called for immediate tactical backup, but Ryan wasn't waiting. While two hospital security officers guarded my room and took Jessica into custody, Ryan sprinted down the emergency stairwell, disregarding every protocol in the book.

Through the security feed patched to Harris's tablet, I watched from my bed, my heart hammering against the monitor sensors.

On Level B-2, beneath the flickering amber light of a dying sodium lamp, two figures stood beside a black luxury SUV.

One was Brianna. She wore a dark trench coat, her blonde hair tucked beneath a baseball cap, her designer handbag slung over her shoulder. She looked immaculate, sociopathic, untouched by the chaos she had unleashed upon our family.

The other man was Carter.

His hands were zip-tied behind his back, his face bruised, his canvas coat soaked through with dirt and dried blood. Standing beside him was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tailored charcoal suit—Evelyn’s longtime trust attorney, Marcus Croft.

"You should have stayed dead in Michigan, Carter," Brianna's sharp, grating voice carried through the garage microphone feed. "Julian left the secondary deeds to you because he thought you were weak enough to be managed. But you couldn't even keep your mouth shut at the airstrip."

"You burned their house, Brianna," Carter said, his voice gravelly, lacking any trace of fear. "Clara is carrying twins. If they die, this isn't grand larceny anymore. It's a capital murder charge."

"Not if it's ruled a stillbirth caused by an existing medical condition," Croft replied smoothly, checking his gold wristwatch. "The medical examiner in our pocket will certify that the blunt force from yesterday was non-lethal, and that the patient suffered from chronic gestational hypertension. By eight o'clock this morning, the probate judge will sign the emergency deed transfer based on Julian's survivorship clause."

"You forgot one thing, Croft," Carter whispered.

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Ryan."

The heavy steel fire door behind them blew open with a deafening crash.

Ryan didn't issue a warning. He charged like an enraged bull, tackling Marcus Croft directly into the concrete pillar. The attorney's briefcase flew open, scattering legal drafts, forged signature pages, and cashier's checks across the oil-stained floor.

Brianna screamed, pulling a heavy brass stun-gun from her pocket, lunging toward Ryan’s back.

"Ryan, behind you!" I screamed at the monitor in my room, miles away from being able to help him.

Carter moved.

Despite his bound hands, Carter threw his entire body weight sideways, slamming into Brianna's knees. Brianna crashed down hard, the stun-gun skittering away into the dark beneath an empty vehicle.

"Get the papers, Ryan!" Carter shouted, kicking Brianna's flailing arms away. "The original deed from 2004 is in Croft's inner jacket! Don't let him destroy it!"

Croft scrambled for a snub-nosed revolver concealed in his ankle holster, his manicured face twisted in murderous rage. "You stupid, arrogant bastards! You think Julian cared about any of you? He created this trust to wash twenty million dollars of offshore hedge funds!"

Croft raised the gun, aiming directly at Ryan’s chest.

*BANG.*