My husband laughed when his mother kicked my chair from beneath me in front of the entire restaurant. “Don’t be dramatic,” he said as I pulled myself off the floor. They believed they had finally broken me. I calmly returned to my seat and placed my phone on the table. “Before dessert,” I whispered, “perhaps everyone should hear why you two have been secretly transferring money into the same account.” Their smiles disappeared instantly.I was just trying to survive dinner when my mother-in-law kicked the back leg of my chair.

The smell of stale whiskey, damp wool, and medical antiseptic washed over me.

I slowly raised my hands into the air, keeping my thumb resting on the casing of the panic tracker inside my pocket, but I didn't press the button yet. If I made a sudden movement, Harold Vance’s finger would pull the trigger out of pure panic.

“Turn around slowly,” Harold rasped, stepping back two paces.

I turned around slowly, keeping my eyes steady.

Dr. Harold Vance looked nothing like the polished, wealthy physician who had attended my father’s funeral in a tailor-made suit. His hair was wild and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. His clothes were filthy, stained with mud from hiding in the woods. In his right hand, he held a small snub-nosed revolver pointed directly at my chest.

“Hello, Uncle Harold,” I said, forcing my voice to remain completely steady, devoid of fear. “You look terrible.”

“Shut up!” Harold hissed, his hand trembling as he gestured with the gun. “Shut your mouth! You ruined everything! We had it all planned! You were supposed to be locked away in an institution by now!”

“Instead, Nathan and Lorraine are sitting in a federal holding cell,” I replied coldly. “And you’re a hunted fugitive standing in my kitchen.”

“I need money,” Harold growled, stepping closer, his teeth bared like an animal. “I know Arthur kept a emergency safe in the floor of this office. Three hundred thousand in cash. Give me the combination, Claire. Give it to me now, or I swear to God I’ll end you right here!”

I looked down at his shaking hand. He was terrified, unhinged, and operating on pure adrenaline.

“The safe combination is in the study,” I lied smoothly. “I’ll show you.”

“Walk,” Harold ordered, shoving the barrel of the gun into my back. “Slowly. Try anything, and you die.”

I walked slowly out of the kitchen and down the dim hallway toward my father’s study. Every step was calculated. I needed him focused on the safe—focused on the illusion of escape—so I could press the panic button without him realizing what I was doing.

We entered the study. The single desk lamp cast long, dramatic shadows across the mahogany shelves and my father’s portrait above the fireplace.

“Where is it?” Harold demanded, his eyes scanning the floor frantically.

“Under the rug near the desk,” I said, pointing toward the heavy Persian carpet.

As Harold looked down toward the floor, my thumb pressed hard on the black button in my pocket.

The small device gave a silent, imperceptible double-vibration against my hip. The signal was sent. The countdown had begun: four minutes until Marcus and the Sheriff’s department arrived.

I needed to keep him talking for four minutes.

“How could you do it, Harold?” I asked, stepping toward the desk to place myself between him and the door. “My father gave you a home when your medical practice failed twenty years ago. He paid off your debts. He treated you like a brother.”

Harold let out a bitter, barking laugh. “Arthur was a fool! He sat on a goldmine worth fifty million dollars and spent his life worrying about grape quality and soil pH! He could have sold this place years ago! Lorraine understood real money. Nathan understood real money!”

“Lorraine used you, Harold,” I said, keeping my tone conversational, dropping my voice to make him lean in to listen. “Do you really think she was going to share that fourteen million with you in the Bahamas? She had already drawn up papers to cut you out of the Cayman account.”

Harold’s eyes flickered with a sudden, ugly doubt. “You’re lying. She needed me for the digitalis.”

“Look at the ledgers,” I said, pointing to the desk where copies of the financial records sat. “She recorded every dollar sent to you as an ‘illegal bribe for medical malpractice.’ If the FBI ever caught up with them, they were going to drop the entire murder charge on your lap while they walked away with forty-two million from Albion.”

Harold stared at the desk, his face twisting into a hideous mask of doubt and fury. “No... no! We were partners!”

“You were their fall guy, Harold,” I said softly. “Just like they tried to make me their fall guy.”

Outside, in the far distance down the mountain road, a faint sound echoed through the night—the low, rising wail of police sirens approaching the vineyard gates.

Harold’s head snapped toward the window, his eyes wild with terror.

“You called them!” he shrieked, turning the gun back toward my chest. “You trapped me!”