My sister cut the brake line on my car the morning I was taking my daughter to court to escape my family forever. Then my mother stood on the porch, smiled, and said, “You’ll never leave us alive.” But they had no idea I had already prepared for this moment.

The federal government’s involvement changed everything.

The state charges of attempted murder were temporarily stayed to allow the FBI to build a massive, sweeping Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) case against the entire Vale-Vance network. Margaret and Paige’s bond was revoked entirely, meaning they would remain behind bars at the federal detention center in Cleveland until their trial.

But the danger was not over.

Marcus Vance had managed to evade the initial police raid. He was now a fugitive, hiding in the dense forests and abandoned coal mines of southeastern Ohio. And he knew that Claire’s testimony—and the financial files she had secured—were the only things that could put him away for life.

One night, the storm outside the safe house grew so violent that the power lines went down, plunging the cabin into absolute darkness.

Ava was asleep in the loft above the living room. Claire sat by the fireplace, her hand resting on the heavy steel poker, her ears strained for any sound over the howling of the wind.

A floorboard creaked on the back porch.

It wasn't the wind. The sound was heavy, rhythmic, and intentional.

Claire stood up slowly, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped drum. She gripped the steel poker, her knuckles turning white in the dim glow of the dying embers.

“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice steady despite her terror.

The lock on the back door rattled.

Then, the wooden frame splintered with a deafening crack as a heavy boot kicked the door open.

A man stepped into the cabin. He was tall, his face covered by a black wool mask, his clothes soaked with rain. In his right hand, he held a sleek, black handgun with a silver silencer mounted on the barrel.

Marcus Vance.

“Where are the files, Claire?” Marcus hissed, his voice rough and wet. “Where did you put the ledger?”

“The police have it, Marcus,” Claire said, taking a slow step back toward the stairs to the loft, keeping her body between the intruder and her daughter. “It’s already in the federal database. Killing me won't save you.”

“Maybe not,” Marcus sneered, taking a step toward her, the gun raised. “But it will make me feel a hell of a lot better. Your sister Paige was a fool, but she was right about one thing—you’ve always been a plague on this family.”

He took another step, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Claire didn't scream. She didn't beg.

She lunged forward, swinging the heavy steel poker with all the strength in her body.

The metal struck Marcus’s wrist with a sickening crack. He let out a sharp cry of pain, the gun flying from his hand and sliding across the hardwood floor into the darkness.

But he was twice her size. He grabbed her shoulder, throwing her against the stone fireplace. Claire’s head hit the mantel, and she fell to the floor, her vision swimming with silver stars.

Through the haze of pain, she saw Marcus reach into his boot, pulling a long, silver hunting knife.

“You’re done, Claire,” he whispered, stepping over her.

Bang!

The sound of a gunshot shattered the quiet of the cabin.

Marcus froze, his eyes wide with shock. He slowly looked down at his chest, where a dark, wet circle was rapidly blooming on his wet jacket. He took a stumbling step back, dropped the knife, and collapsed onto the floor, his body twitching once before going completely still.

In the doorway of the bedroom, twelve-year-old Ava stood holding Detective Owens’s spare service weapon, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold the heavy steel frame.