At My Sister's Wedding Rehearsal, She Pushed Me Off an 11-Foot Balcony "For Views"—Knowing My Spine Was Already Fractured. While I Lay in the Hospital Unable to Feel My Feet, My Parents Stole $62,000 From My Corporate Account. Then the Security Footage Exposed Everything...

The grand opening gala for the Savannah Riverfront Promenade was a glittering, roaring success. By midnight, the champagne flutes had been cleared, the jazz band had packed up their instruments, and the sprawling historic atrium of our headquarters was finally quiet.

Evan and I walked hand-in-hand up the grand central staircase toward my penthouse office on the top floor. The building was wrapped in a peaceful, serene silence, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the Savannah River moving steadily out toward the Atlantic.

"I think I'm actually going to sleep for twelve hours straight starting tomorrow," Evan groaned good-naturedly, tossing his suit jacket over the back of the conference room sofa and loosening his silk tie.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," I laughed, walking over to my mahogany desk to drop my keys and evening clutch. "We still have the final zoning sign-off for the east promenade docks on Wednesday morning."

As I reached out to switch off the desk lamp, something caught my eye.

Sitting right in the center of the polished wood surface was a plain, heavy-stock manila envelope. There was no postage stamp on it. No return address. Just my name typed across the front in clean, old-fashioned Courier font:

*VICTORIA STERLING*

*PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL*

My breath caught in my throat. The room, which had felt so warm and safe only a moment before, suddenly felt freezing cold.

"Evan," I whispered, not taking my eyes off the envelope.

Evan stopped loosening his tie, his instincts instantly kicking in. He stepped across the room in three long strides, standing beside me and looking down at the desk. "Where did that come from? The cleaning staff hasn't been in yet."

"I don't know," I said, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs in a familiar, warning rhythm.

I reached out slowly, my fingers trembling slightly as I picked up the heavy envelope. It felt surprisingly thick. With cautious precision, I slid my thumb under the sealed flap and tore it open.

Inside wasn't a corporate document or a threatening legal notice.

It was a single, glossy 8x10 photograph, face down, and a folded piece of heavy parchment paper.

I pulled out the photograph and flipped it over.

My blood ran instantly cold.

It was a snapshot taken earlier that evening during the gala—a candid, high-zoom telephoto shot of Evan and me standing together on the second-floor balcony, laughing and clinking our glasses. But we weren't alone. In the shadowy corner of the background, half-hidden behind one of the new structural glass panels, stood a figure wearing a dark hoodie and a surgical mask, staring directly up at us with cold, unblinking eyes.

Written across the bottom of the photograph in neat, handwritten ink were five chilling words:

*THE VIEW IS BETTER FROM HERE.*

I dropped the photo onto the desk with a sharp gasp. Evan snatched up the folded parchment paper, unfolded it, and scanned the single line typed across the center: