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.

I didn't sleep that night.

I sat in the dark, going through everything Sarah had sent me.

Bank statements.

Property records.

Fake invoices.

Richard Hale's criminal history.

The picture that emerged was one of calculated, systematic greed.

Vanessa had masterminded the whole thing.

Mark had been the willing pawn, too weak and too cowardly to say no.

And Hale had provided the legal cover, using his knowledge of the system to make their crimes look legitimate.

At 5:47 a.m., I heard a car pull into the driveway.

I looked out the window.

It was Vanessa.

She was alone.

And she was carrying something.

I met her at the door before she could knock.

"What do you want?"

She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes.

"Can't a girl come check on her father-in-law?"

"You lost that privilege when you beat him with a bat."

She glanced past me, into the house.

"Is Mark here?"

"He's around."

She shifted the bag she was carrying.

"I brought breakfast. Your father always liked my blueberry pancakes."

I blocked the doorway.

"You're not coming in."

Vanessa's smile faded.

"Emma, be reasonable. We're family. Whatever happened last night was a misunderstanding. A terrible, terrible misunderstanding. But we can fix this. We don't need the police. We don't need your federal badge. We just need to talk."

"Talk about what?" I asked. "How you forged a power of attorney? How you stole over half a million dollars? How you tried to have an innocent man committed so you could get away with it?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then let me make it simple for you," I said. "I have the bat. I have the medical records. I have the bank statements. And I have Richard Hale's entire criminal history. By the end of the week, you're going to be in jail. And Mark is going right there with you unless he decides to cooperate."

Vanessa laughed.

It was a sharp, unpleasant sound.

"You think Mark will talk? He's too afraid of me. And too afraid of losing everything we've built together. He'll never turn on me."

"We'll see."

She leaned closer, dropping her voice.

"You think you're so smart with your badge and your investigations. But you don't know the half of it. Your father isn't the saint you think he is. He has secrets. Big ones. Secrets that would destroy everything he's built if they ever came out."

I stared at her.

"What are you talking about?"

"Ask him about 1998," she said, her eyes glinting with malice. "Ask him about the fire at the old construction site. Ask him why his partner died and your father walked away with the whole company."

The blood drained from my face.

I remembered the fire.

I was sixteen when it happened.

Dad's partner, Uncle Joe, had died in the blaze.

The official report said it was an accident.

Electrical failure.

But Vanessa was looking at me like she held a nuclear bomb.

"You're lying," I said, though my voice wavered.

"Am I?" She smiled again, triumphant. "I have documents, Emma. Letters. Witness statements. Your father didn't just benefit from that fire. He started it. And if you push me, I'll make sure every newspaper in the state knows about it. Your father will go to prison for life. And everything he owns will be seized by the state. You'll get nothing. Mark and I will get nothing. We'll all lose. Is that what you want?"

My mind was racing.

This couldn't be true.

Not my father.

He was a good man.

An honest man.

But Vanessa's confidence was absolute.

And I knew from experience that the best liars always mixed truth with their fiction.

"You're bluffing," I said, though I wasn't as sure as I sounded.

"Try me," she said. "Drop the charges. Tear up those bank statements. Let us handle the family finances the way we were. And I'll forget all about this little misunderstanding. Your father stays out of jail. Your brother stays out of jail. Everyone wins."

I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the monster beneath the makeup and the designer clothes.

She was a blackmailer.

An extortionist.

And she thought she had me cornered.

"Get off my property," I said quietly.

Vanessa's eyes flashed.

"You're making a mistake, Emma."

"I don't make mistakes," I told her. "And I don't negotiate with terrorists. If you have evidence, bring it. But until then, stay away from my father. Stay away from this house. And stay the hell away from me."

She stared at me for a long moment.

Then she turned and walked back to her car.

Before she got in, she looked over her shoulder.

"I gave you a chance," she called out. "When this all blows up, remember that."

She drove away, tires screeching.

I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart pounding.

1998.

The fire.

Uncle Joe.

I had to talk to my father.

I had to know the truth.