Three hours before my wedding, my mother-in-law poured black garbage water all over my dress and left a note that said “Know your place” — so I put it on anyway and walked down the aisle in front of 200 guests with a secret she never saw coming.

I ran out of the bedroom, my heart hammering.

Down the hall, Daniel’s door was wide open. The lights were on. Two men in black masks stood over Daniel, who was on his knees, blood running from a cut on his forehead. One of them held a gun to Daniel’s head.

The other turned when he saw me.

“Maya Carter,” he said. His voice was rough, distorted by a voice changer in his mask. “Finally. We meet.”

Marcus was behind them, his gun raised, his hands steady. “Put the gun down. Now. Police are on their way.”

The man with the gun to Daniel’s head laughed. “Let them come. By the time they get here, all three of you will be dead. And Robert will have what’s his.”

Robert.

So Marcus had been right.

“Where is he?” I said, stepping into the room, keeping my voice calm. “If he wants me so bad, why doesn’t he come himself? Why send his dogs to do his dirty work?”

The first man backhanded me across the face. I stumbled back, my cheek stinging.

“Shut up, bitch,” he said. “You don’t get to ask questions.”

Marcus’s finger tightened on the trigger. “I said put the gun down. Last warning.”

“Or what?” the gunman said. “You’ll shoot? Go ahead. The second your bullet leaves the barrel, I blow his brains out. You want that on your conscience, Counselor?”

A standoff.

Seconds ticked by like hours.

Then, from the hallway behind the intruders, my father stepped into view. He was holding the baseball bat Daniel kept by his bed. He moved silently, barefoot, in his pajamas.

The intruders didn’t see him.

He raised the bat over his head.

And swung.

CRACK.

The bat connected with the back of the gunman’s head. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious, the gun clattering away.

The second man spun around, raising his own gun.

Marcus fired.

The bullet hit the man in the shoulder. He screamed and went down, clutching his arm.

It was over in five seconds.

Sirens wailed outside.

My father dropped the bat, his hands shaking. “Is everyone okay?”

Daniel scrambled to his feet, grabbing the fallen gun. “I’m fine. Maya? Marcus?”

“We’re good,” Marcus said, already on the phone, calling for backup and ambulances.

I walked to the fallen men. I knelt beside the one Marcus had shot. He was still conscious, moaning in pain. I reached down and ripped his mask off.

I didn’t recognize him.

But I recognized the tattoo on his neck—a coiled snake with the letter W in its mouth. The old Whitmore family crest. The same tattoo Arthur had on his arm. The same one Eleanor had on her ankle.

Robert’s men.

The police arrived minutes later. They took statements. They collected evidence. They carried the two men out on stretchers—one unconscious, one under arrest.

The lead detective pulled Marcus aside.

“We ID’d them,” he said quietly. “Both known mercenaries. Work for the highest bidder. They’ve done jobs in Europe, South America, the Middle East. If Robert Whitmore hired them… he’s got deep pockets and a very long reach.”

“Did they talk?” Marcus said. “Do they know where he is?”

The detective shook his head. “The conscious one’s lawyered up. Won’t say a word. The other one’s still out. But we’ll get it out of them. One way or another.”

I sat on the couch in the living room while a paramedic cleaned the cut on my cheek and stitched Daniel’s forehead. My father sat beside me, his arm around my shoulders, still shaking a little.

“That was stupid,” I told him. “You could have gotten killed.”

He kissed the top of my head. “You’re my daughter. Daniel’s family. What was I supposed to do? Let them hurt you?”

I leaned into him. “Thank you.”

After the police left, we all sat in the living room, drinking coffee, no one talking. The sun was coming up, painting the sky pink and orange.

“We can’t live like this,” Daniel said finally. “Waiting for the next attack. Looking over our shoulders every second. Robert isn’t going to stop. Not until one of us is dead.”

“He’s right,” Marcus said. “We have to find him first. We have to take the fight to him.”

“But how?” I said. “He’s a ghost. No one knows where he is. No one’s seen him in years.”

Daniel stood up, wincing a little. He walked to the bookshelf and pulled down an old photo album—one of Arthur’s. He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

A photograph of two young men, standing in front of a cabin in the mountains. Arthur and Robert. They looked almost identical, same dark hair, same sharp Whitmore eyes. But where Arthur was smiling, Robert was scowling, his arms crossed over his chest.

On the back of the photo, in Arthur’s handwriting: Robert’s place. Lakeview. The only place he ever felt at home.

“Lakeview,” Daniel said. “It’s a tiny town three hours north of here. In the middle of the woods. Arthur used to talk about it. Said Robert built a cabin there when they were in their twenties. Said he went there when he wanted to disappear.”

He looked at us.

“If he’s in the country? That’s where he’ll be.”