My phone rang at 2:27 a.m. and it was my dad, his voice cracking so bad I could barely understand him, whispering from the back of a small-town police station that my sister-in-law had beaten him with a baseball bat then told the responding officers he was the violent, mentally ill attacker.

The police arrived within twenty minutes.

Hayes took one look at the bat in the evidence bag I'd produced from my car—another habit from my job—and his face went through several emotions.

Surprise.

Dismay.

And finally, resignation.

"We'll need to take this to forensics," he said.

"I already photographed it in situ," I told him. "I have photos of the entire crime scene. And my father's medical records show injuries consistent with being struck by a blunt object of this size and shape."

Hayes nodded, looking at the bat as if it personally offended him.

"She really did a number on him."

"She almost killed him," I corrected. "And my brother watched."

Hayes glanced at Mark, who was sitting on the porch steps, staring blankly at his hands.

"You want me to take him in too?"

I looked at my brother.

I thought about the years we'd shared.

The birthday parties.

The family vacations.

The way he'd looked up to me when we were kids.

And I thought about the way he'd stood by while his wife beat our father.

"Not yet," I said finally. "I want him to have a front-row seat for what happens next."

Hayes gave me a long look, then nodded.

"Your call. But I'm putting a patrol car outside the house tonight. Just in case."

"Appreciated."

After the police left, I helped my father inside.

We cleaned up what we could, though some of the damage would take longer to fix.

The broken lamp.

The shattered picture frame holding a photo of us at the beach ten years ago.

My father picked up the broken glass, carefully removing the photo.

"I always liked this one," he said softly.

I sat beside him on the couch.

"Dad, I need you to be strong for a little while longer. This isn't over. Vanessa isn't going to go away quietly. And Mark... I don't know what he's going to do."

He nodded, though his hands were trembling.

"I just don't understand how it came to this. He was such a good boy."

"Vanessa is manipulative," I said. "And Mark has always been weak. She found that weakness and exploited it. But that's his fault, not yours. You did everything you could for him."

My phone rang.

It was Sarah.

"Emma, you need to see this."

Her voice was tight.

"What did you find?"

"Your brother and Vanessa have been siphoning money from your father's accounts for almost two years. Small amounts at first, then bigger ones. Total so far? Just over four hundred thousand dollars."

I felt the air leave my lungs.

"Four hundred thousand?"

"And that's just what I could find in the obvious accounts. There's a business your father started years ago—Brooks Construction? They've been funneling money through fake invoices there too. Could be another two hundred thousand."

I closed my eyes.

My father had built that company with his bare hands.

He'd worked sixty-hour weeks for thirty years to make it successful.

And they'd been draining it like vampires.

"There's more," Sarah said. "The 'lawyer friend' they've been working with? His name is Richard Hale. He's been disbarred twice. Currently under investigation by the state bar for fraud. He's got a rap sheet that includes forgery, embezzlement, and witness tampering."

Of course.

Vanessa wouldn't hire a real lawyer.

She'd hire someone just as dirty as she was.

"Sarah, I need you to put together everything you have. Bank records, property transfers, the fake invoices, Hale's history. I want it all organized and ready to go."

"Already on it. But Emma... this is going to get ugly. They're not going to just roll over."

"I know," I said. "And I'm ready for them."

I hung up and looked at my father.

He was watching me, waiting.

"How bad?" he asked.

"Bad," I admitted. "But we're going to get every penny back. And they're going to pay for what they've done."

He nodded, but I saw the exhaustion in his face.

This was a seventy-two-year-old man who had just been beaten by his daughter-in-law and betrayed by his son.

He was running on fumes.

"You should get some rest," I told him. "I'll stay here tonight. Keep watch."

He didn't argue.

A few minutes later, I heard his bedroom door close.