That same night, Renata Ashford — Nathan’s mother — asked to see me.

We sat in a private lounge and she set a cup of tea in front of me with her steady, manicured hands.

“Emma,” she said.

“What happened with Sabrina is only the surface.”

“Then tell me what’s underneath.”

She studied me for a long moment, the way you study a hand of cards.

“Your father didn’t die in an accident,” she said.

“He was murdered.” My hands went cold around the cup.