My sister turned my engagement party into her pregnancy celebration, but when our wedding coordinator sent me the revised schedule, I discovered my own first dance was being taken away.

The Norristown Regional Detention Facility smelled of bleach, floor wax, and the damp wool of inmates' jumpsuits. The heavy magnetic security doors clicked open with the dull, pneumatic hiss of a bank vault sealing shut.

Inside Interrogation Room B, Kendra was not weeping.

She sat at the small stainless-steel table, her blonde hair pulled back in a disheveled bun, her designer silk blouse rumpled and stained with coffee. Her diamond engagement ring—the four-carat platinum monstrosity Marcus had bought her with money skimmed from my mother’s estate—flashed under the fluorescent tubes. Her hands were cuffed to a welded D-ring in the center of the table.

When the heavy steel door swung open and I walked in, flanked by Ben and Ross, her eyes flared with a brief, panicked flicker before hardening into the familiar, petulant sneer I had endured my entire life.

"Emily," she drawled, leaning back against the cold metal chair as far as the chain would allow. "Did you bring your attack dog with you to intimidate me? You can tell your FBI friend that I’ve invoked my right to counsel. I’m not saying another word until Dad’s corporate attorneys get down here."

"Dad doesn't have corporate attorneys anymore, Kendra," I said, my voice dead and cold. I walked slowly to the table, pulled out the metal chair across from her, and sat down.

I didn't yell. I didn't lunge across the table. I just looked at her.

"What are you talking about?" Kendra scoffed, though her eyes darted toward Ross. "Arthur Miller has the best defense firm in the state on retainer."

"Arthur’s assets were frozen by a federal seizure order at midnight," Ben stated, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. "Every bank account, every LLC, every trust. And the firm you’re waiting for? They submitted a formal conflict-of-interest withdrawal thirty minutes ago. You’re on the public defender’s roster now, Kendra."

A hairline fracture appeared in her porcelain facade. Her throat bobbed. "This is ridiculous. I haven't done anything. If Marcus was moving money out of the orchard, that’s between him and Dad. I’m a victim here! I’m pregnant, for God’s sake! You can't keep me in these cuffs—it’s inhumane!"

"You're not pregnant, Kendra," I said softly.

The room went dead silent.

Kendra froze. The breath caught in her throat. "What did you say?"

"Agent Ross pulled your medical records from your OB-GYN in Bryn Mawr an hour ago," I said, leaning forward until my face was barely two feet from hers. "You haven't seen an obstetrician in fourteen months. You bought the ultrasound scan online from a novelty website in Florida. You used it at my engagement dinner to announce your 'miracle' so that no one would notice Marcus slipping out of the back room with the deed transfers."

Her skin drained of color, turning the sickly grey of wet chalk. "Emily... you don't understand..."

"And then you took my first dance," I continued, each word falling like an iron spike into the table. "You told the wedding coordinator to cut my dance with Ben so you could have a 'Tribute to Eleanor.' You wanted everyone looking at you. You wanted the entire family weeping for our saintly mother who died of cancer."

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the plastic evidence bag Ross had given me, and dropped it onto the steel table between us.

The Ceylon sapphire gleamed under the strip lights. The platinum band was still stained with tiny flecks of dried, yellow clay.

Kendra recoiled as if I had dropped a venomous snake between her hands. She yanked her arms back, the steel chain rattling violently against the D-ring. "Where... where did you get that?"

"From her finger, Kendra," I whispered.

Kendra’s breath began to come in shallow, ragged hitches. "No. No, Dad said... Dad said she was going to a facility in Switzerland. He said—"

"Dad was in federal custody on Tuesday morning!" I screamed, slamming both palms down on the metal table with a force that made Kendra jump out of her skin. "Arthur didn't touch her! Marcus took her from the cottage. And you signed the transfer papers!"

"Marcus told me it was an extraction!" she shrieked, the tears finally bursting from her eyes in an ugly, mascara-smeared torrent. "He told me the feds were going to seize the orchard and that Mom would be put in a state ward! He said if we moved her to the safe house in Jersey, we could protect the trust! I didn't know he was going to hurt her! Emily, I swear to God, I didn't know!"

"Where was Marcus going with the secobarbital, Kendra?" Ben asked, stepping forward, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "He didn't take her to New Jersey. He took her to the limestone cellar beneath the 1978 graves. He put her in a lead box and poured two tons of quick-dry cement over her face. And you were heading toward the turnpike with three duffel bags of cash."

"No! No, no, no!" Kendra began thrashing against the cuffs, her head swinging wildly from side to side. "Marcus said he’d meet me in Cape May! We had a boat chartered! He told me Mom was already across the state line with a private transport team! He lied to me!"

"Marcus didn't lie to you about the money, did he?" I asked, my voice dropping back down to a whisper that cut through her hysteria like a razor. "You took sixty percent of the trust distribution three years ago when Mom 'died.' You bought your house. You bought your car. You bought Marcus."

Kendra looked at me, her eyes wide, wild, and utterly stripped of vanity. "She was losing her mind, Emily! She found the ledgers from 1965 in Dad’s safe! She was going to go to the police! She was going to destroy the family! Dad didn't want to kill her... he loved her! He just wanted to keep her safe! He told me if we faked the hospice death, Mom could live comfortably at the cottage, and nobody would have to go to prison!"

"And you believed him?" I said, disgust curling my lip. "Or did you just want her out of the way so you could spend her money?"

Kendra slumped forward against the table, the fight completely draining out of her. Her forehead rested against the cold steel, inches from the bag containing our mother’s ring.

"Marcus took the master key," she whispered through her sobs. "He didn't go to Cape May. He played me, Emily. He played all of us."

"The master key to what?" Ben demanded.

"The safety deposit box at the Meridian Bank in Center City," Kendra choked out. "The one Dad opened under Mom’s maiden name. Marcus didn't just want the trust money. Dad kept the real ledgers there. The names of every judge, every township supervisor, every developer who took a cut of the Blackwood acquisitions since 1965. Marcus wasn't running to the shore. He was going to sell those ledgers to the cartel in New York before the FBI could find them."

Ben and Ross exchanged an instant, electrifying glance.

"When does the Meridian vault open?" Ben asked.