The metallic taste of blood on my tongue wasn’t new to me.

Grant didn’t ring the doorbell. He slammed his fist against the wood three times, rattling the frosted glass panels.

Michael walked toward the door, but I touched his shoulder. “Let me handle this. Keep the girls in the kitchen.”

Michael nodded, stepping back into the hallway where he had a clear sightline, his arms crossed, ready to move if Grant made a single aggressive gesture.

I unlocked the front door and opened it halfway, stepping onto the threshold.

Grant looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his expensive designer loafers were scuffed, and the odor of stale gin hung heavily around him. He had lost the smug, golden-child confidence that had shielded him from reality for thirty-six years.

“Lauren,” he gasped, his voice cracked and desperate. “You have to stop this. You have to call off the lawyer.”

“You are violating a temporary restraining order by being on this property, Grant,” I said, resting my hand calmly against the doorframe. “You have sixty seconds to get in your car before I have Deputy Alvarez return to finish the collection.”

“Listen to me!” Grant pleaded, stepping closer, his hands trembling. “The bank... the bank called Dad. They told him about the notice of default on Shoreline Drive. He collapsed, Lauren. He had a transient ischemic attack. He’s at St. Jude’s Hospital right now!”

A cold spike traveled through my spine, but I didn't let my expression change. “Is he conscious?”

“Yes, yes, he’s conscious, but the doctors say he can’t take any stress! The mortgage lender gave me seventy-two hours to cure the default or they seize the house and liquidate the commercial accounts! If you press forward with this five-million-dollar defamation suit against Vanessa, our bank freezes our remaining credit lines! We lose everything! Everything!”

I looked at my older brother. For three decades, he had stood at the center of the universe. Every family dinner was scheduled around his availability. Every holiday was hosted where he preferred. When he crashed my car at twenty-two, Dad told me I should have been more generous with lending my vehicle. When he bullied the neighbor’s children, Eleanor called it “leadership qualities.”

And now, stripped of his father’s money, he was nothing more than a frightened parasite whose host had finally run dry.

“Why did you do it, Grant?” I asked softly.

He blinked, stunned by the question. “What?”

“Why did you tell Connor to say those things to Lily?”

Grant’s face twisted in exasperation. “Who cares about that?! That was kids talking! It was a stupid joke!”

“A joke?” I took a step forward onto the porch, my voice hardening. “Lily cried for three hours because she thought she didn't belong in our home. She asked me if she was a ‘charity leftover.’ Those were your words, Grant. You said them at Christmas two years ago when you thought Michael and I were in the kitchen. Connor repeated what you taught him.”

“Lauren, I was drunk! It didn't mean anything!”

“It meant everything,” I said. “It meant that in your eyes, my family is worthless because we didn’t play your game. Because I didn’t stay in this town, crawl for Dad’s approval, and beg for scraps from the Bennett trust. I built a life with my bare hands. I earned my rank. Michael and I built a home filled with love, honor, and respect—three things you have never experienced in your miserable, hollow life.”

“I’m your brother!” he shouted, tears of pure self-pity spilling down his cheeks. “We share blood!”

“Blood doesn't buy loyalty, Grant. Character does. And yours is bankrupt.”

“If you don't drop the suit, Dad will disown you permanently!” Grant threatened, reverting back to the only leverage he had ever known. “You’ll get nothing! Not a single cent!”

I looked him dead in the eye and laughed. It was a clear, ringing sound that cut through the humid summer evening air.

“Grant, there is nothing left to inherit,” I said. “You stole it all. The only thing Dad has left is a three-million-dollar debt to a predatory lender and an indictment from the state attorney general’s financial crimes unit.”

Grant’s eyes expanded until the whites showed completely around his pupils. “What... what did you say?”

“Sarah Sterling delivered the audit files to the state prosecutor at two o’clock this afternoon,” I told him smoothly. “Wire fraud. Embezzlement. Forgery of corporate documents. The sheriff won't just be arresting your wife next week, Grant. They’re coming for you.”

The color drained entirely from Grant’s face. He stumbled backward off the porch steps, landing awkwardly on the manicured lawn. He stared at me as if looking at a stranger—someone he had never truly seen before.

“You... you killed us,” he breathed.

“No, Grant,” I said, closing the front door until only a crack remained. “You killed yourselves. I’m just conducting the inspection.”