“What did you find?” I asked, my heart pounding a steady, militant rhythm against my ribs.

Ortiz handed me the inventory list. “It was his bug-out vault. Four heavy-duty, five-gallon gasoline containers, completely empty but reeking of fumes. A stack of forged fire-safety maintenance reports for the house’s alarm system. Two offshore passports, one for him, one for Vanessa. And two large Samsonite suitcases packed with nearly four hundred thousand dollars in banded cash.”

They’d found the war chest. But Arthur still believed I was his loyal, brain-damaged pawn.

Through the glass, I heard him speaking to his panicked lawyer, his voice dripping with venomous confidence.

“Don’t worry about Ellen,” Arthur sneered, adjusting his cuffs. “She’ll fold on the stand. She’s weak. She’s always been terrified of me, and she’s desperate for my approval. Once I talk to her, I’ll have her testify that Eleanor was suicidal. We can spin this.”

I pressed my palm flat over the raised burn scar on my arm. The pain was sharp, grounding, and real. It was a reminder of what he had taken from me, and what I was about to take from him.