Harold’s voice was barely audible. “According to the records sent to my office, Mariana Bellamy Montgomery died from surgical complications two days after the divorce was filed.”

My hand tightened around the key until the edge bit my palm.

Behind me, Ryan’s footsteps stopped.

He had heard.

I turned slowly.

His face was pale. “I didn’t know that,” he said.

For once, I believed him.

But belief did not comfort me.

Someone had not only stolen my inheritance.

Someone had tried to erase me completely.

The officers had taken Rebecca, but the real shape of the conspiracy was only beginning to appear. My father’s estate, the forged medical records, the false death certificate, the hidden key—each piece pointed toward something larger than revenge, larger than greed, larger than one cruel mother-in-law protecting her family name.

Harold looked past me toward the hotel doors, where shadows moved behind the glass.

“We should leave now,” he said.

There was urgency in his voice.

I turned toward the entrance and saw a man standing beneath the awning across the street.

He was tall, dressed in a dark coat, his face half-hidden by the brim of his hat. He was not one of the wedding guests. He was not looking at Ryan, or Harold, or the hotel.

He was looking at my children.