They Drank My Father’s Champagne and Toasted My Death. They Forgot Whose Daughter I Am

“And her parents?” Fiona asked.

“You said they can’t be left to ask questions.”

“Handled,” Flynn said.

“They fly up to the mountains next week — they do it every year.

There’s a stretch of road up there, high passes, black ice this time of year.

My people are already in position.

A brake failure on the wrong curve, and the whole family is together again.” He said it lightly.

He said it like an itinerary.