I set the ticket flat on the wood. It was only thermal paper, but it was a weapon.

I pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen. My hand, which had trembled with joy an hour ago, was steady now, guided by a cold, righteous fury.

I wrote three questions in sharp, jagged letters.

How long has he been faking? How much has he stolen? Who is Marcus?

Before I could underline the last one, my phone buzzed against the wood — a text from an unknown number.

Mrs. Hayes, please do not tell Colton about the lottery ticket. He already knows you bought one, and he’s watching your reactions. There are financial documents carrying your name that you never approved. He’s trying to frame me, and he’s coming for everything you own. We need to talk. — Paige Holloway.