My sister was standing at the altar in a white satin wedding gown when the woman everyone believed was dead walked through the ballroom doors. It was the kind of wedding where every detail had been planned to perfection, from the crystal chandeliers to the emerald necklace at Juliette Mercer’s throat, but none of that mattered once the cold air swept into the Saint Aurelia Ballroom carrying the smell of burnt flesh, hospital linen, and old ash. And when I saw Juliette’s face turn white, I understood that this woman had not come here by accident.

The holding cells on level two of the federal building smelled of antiseptic, damp concrete, and stale air. Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead with an irritating buzz that made the skull throb. Cell four was a small, windowless box enclosed by reinforced safety glass and a heavy steel door with a narrow observation slot.

Caroline stood in the corridor, her hands clasped behind her back as she looked through the glass panel.

Inside, Juliette sat huddled in the corner of the narrow cot, her knees pulled up tightly against her chest. The multi-thousand-dollar white satin wedding gown had been replaced by a coarse orange federal detainee jumpsuit that hung loosely over her frail frame. Her immaculate bridal updo had come undone, leaving dark-brown hair tangled and matted around a face devoid of makeup, stained with dried tears and smeared mascara. She was rocking back and forth, whispering unintelligible fragments of sentences to the cold concrete wall.

With a heavy metallic click, the guard unlocked the heavy steel door and pulled it open just enough for Caroline to step inside. The door swung shut behind her, sealing them in the suffocating silence of the cell.

Juliette didn't look up immediately. She continued rocking, her voice a low, manic drone. "I didn't lock it... I swear to God I didn't lock it... the key wouldn't turn... someone was standing there in the dark... watching..."

"Juliette," Caroline said, her voice cutting cleanly through the sterile air.

Juliette froze. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide, bloodshot, and wild with terror. For a second, she looked as though she were staring at a ghost—which, in her mind, she practically was. She scrambled backward on the cot until her back pressed hard against the corner, her hands clawing at the orange fabric of her jumpsuit.

"Get away from me... stay away from me..." Juliette whimpered, her voice cracking into a high-pitched rasp. "You're dead... we buried you... I saw the body..."

"You saw a stranger's body that your father's paid coroner swapped into the morgue to cover up your financial embezzlement audit," Caroline said, stepping closer until she stood at the foot of the cot. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't yell. Her tone was terrifyingly calm, carrying the heavy weight of an executioner. "You didn't care about the audit, Juliette. You cared about your social standing. You cared about marrying Richard Sinclair and stepping into high-society royalty."

"I didn't start the fire!" Juliette shrieked, tears spilling over her lower lids as she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. "I swear to God, Caroline, I just wanted to scare you! I wanted you to sign the transfer papers for the foundation board and leave town! I didn't know the curtains would catch so fast!"

Caroline’s expression hardened like stone. "So you admit you set the fire outside my bedroom door."

"I poured the accelerant on the hallway rug, yes! But I didn't lock the door!" Juliette screamed, looking up with a desperate, pleading expression that was utterly devoid of her former arrogance. "When the flames flared up, I panicked. I tried to turn the deadbolt to pull you out, but it wouldn't budge! Someone had jammed it from the outside! From the service stairs!"

Caroline stared down at her sister, her mind racing. The thermal photograph from Marcus's folder flashed in her memory—the second heat signature lingering near the linen closet, holding a heavy object.

"Who?" Caroline demanded, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "Who was in the hallway, Juliette?"

Juliette swallowed hard, her chest heaving as she stared up at her sister with dilated, terrified eyes. "I didn't see his face... the smoke was too thick... but he was wearing a custom-tailored Italian suit with silver cufflinks shaped like serpents. And when he walked past me into the stairwell, he whispered... 'Your sister knows too much about the Swiss accounts, Juliette. Let the fire finish her.'"