Phoebe came beside me.
Behind us were two men.
One was an investigator.
The other was Henry Dalca, whose family had lost nearly six million dollars in Malcolm Vale’s collapsed fund.
Henry was seventy-six.
His father had died believing the money was gone forever.
I had never met him before that week.
Cordelia’s laughter floated from the garden.
Music played.
Guests drank champagne beneath hanging lights.
The bulldozer waited near the rose garden like an animal chained before an execution.
For a moment, grief threatened to overwhelm me.
Then I saw Cordelia.
She stood beneath Grandfather’s old magnolia tree wearing my fake emerald.
Flynn stood beside her.
He saw me first.
His smile disappeared.
“Sloan?”
Conversation around him faded.
Cordelia turned.
Her face tightened.
“What are you doing here?”
I walked across the lawn.
Each step hurt.
I didn’t care.
“This is private property,” Flynn said.
