My husband and his mistress deliberately killed my daughter!!!

The wind off the lake was freezing, whipping Claire’s damp hair across her face.

The cabin door wasn’t locked. It clicked open with a soft, ominous creak.

Inside, the living room was illuminated only by the crackle of a stone fireplace. Shadows danced across the vaulted pine ceiling. Sitting on the leather sofa, holding a tumbler of scotch, was Grant.

He was still wearing his wedding tuxedo trousers, though his jacket was tossed over a chair and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. He looked unbothered, handsome, and utterly devoid of a soul.

“You’re late, Claire,” Grant said without turning around.

Claire stood five feet behind him, both hands firmly gripping the pistol, aimed directly at the back of his head. “Where is the real watch, Grant?”

Grant took a slow sip of his scotch, then set the glass down on the wooden coffee table. He turned around slowly, looking at the gun barrel pointed at his forehead with mild amusement.

“Put the gun down, darling. You’re not a killer. You’re a kindergarten teacher’s daughter who collects antique tea sets.”

“Try me,” Claire said, her voice dropping to an icy, vibrating pitch. “Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow your head off right now for what you did to Sophie.”

Grant sighed, leaning back against the cushions. “Sophie is fine. She’s resilient. I gave her the absolute lowest doses of thallium. I made sure she wouldn't suffer permanent organ damage until the final event.”

“You talk about her like she’s a laboratory rat!” Claire screamed, her composure cracking under the weight of his monstrous casualness.

“She was an obstacle, Claire!” Grant snapped, his mask of charm slipping, revealing the vicious, resentful predator underneath. “Eight million dollars! Sitting in an offshore escrow fund, untouchable because of David’s ridiculous, sanctimonious moral code! That money belonged to our investment group! David stole those assets from my company before he died!”

“David didn't steal anything from you!” Claire retorted. “David caught you embezzling from the firm! That’s why he cut you out!”

Grant stood up slowly, towering over her. He didn't flinch at the gun.

“David thought he was untouchable,” Grant whispered, a sinister grin spreading across his lips. “He thought his little family was safe. He didn't know I paid his personal pilot fifty thousand dollars to disable the tail rotor hydraulic seal before that flight over the bay. It took forty seconds for that helicopter to hit the water. David died screaming in the Atlantic, Claire. And do you know what he begged for before the radio went dead? He begged for Sophie.”

Tears of hot, searing rage spilled down Claire’s cheeks. “You killed David.”

“I took what was mine,” Grant hissed. “And then I found you. Broken, vulnerable, desperate for a father figure for that brat. It was supposed to be simple. We get married. Sophie has a tragic, fatal asthma attack during the reception. The coroner writes it off as an accidental reaction to the hazelnut cake. Leah and I collect the trust, and you spend the rest of your life weeping in a psychiatric clinic while I live like a king in Monaco.”

He took a step toward her.

“Back up!” Claire shouted, her finger tightening on the trigger.

“You won't shoot,” Grant laughed softly, his eyes cold and dead. “Because if you shoot me, you’ll never find the recording that proves Leah’s testimony. Leah is weak—she’ll fold under police interrogation and claim I forced her into it. The only copy of the contract proving she acted as a hired conspirator is hidden on a thumb drive in this house. Without it, my lawyers will drag this trial out for twenty years, and you’ll spend every day wondering when I’ll make bail.”

Grant took another step.

“Give me the gun, Claire. We can still make a deal. Sign over the estate, and I disappear. You keep your daughter. Everyone wins.”

“You will never touch my daughter again,” Claire whispered.