When I told my mother that my 4-year-old son had a 104°F fever in the ICU, she replied, “Your sister only turns 18 once. Just leave him with your husband.” There were 50 family members waiting at the party. I didn’t argue. I looked at my husband and handed him the phone. What he said next made my mother stop laughing.

The rain was coming down in sheets by the time Fernanda heard the heavy iron doors of the safe room grind open above. She was pacing the muddy floor of the ruined library, her umbrella broken beside her, her hair plastered to her cheeks by the freezing wind.

"Mom! What took you so long? I thought someone—"

She stopped dead as Julian Vance climbed out of the dark hole in the stone floor, followed a second later by Victoria, who looked like a ghost dragged up from the grave. Julian wasn't holding handcuffs, but he was holding the black leather folder under his arm.

"It’s over, Fernanda," Julian said, his breath pluming white in the freezing air. "Get in your car. Go back to Dutchess County. Pack your bags. In the morning, the federal marshals are coming to seize the remaining trust assets under the RICO statute for attempted document theft and conspiracy."

Fernanda’s face drained of all color. She looked from Julian to her mother, whose eyes were hollow, staring blankly at the mud beneath her feet.

"No," Fernanda whispered, her voice rising to a frantic shriek. "No! You can't do that! We have nothing! We’ll be on the street!"

"You had a home," Julian said quietly. "You chose greed."

He turned his back on them, walking out through the gap in the chain-link fence toward a sleek black SUV parked on the public road outside the demolition zone. His tail-lights flared red in the rain, then disappeared around the curve of the hill.

"Get in," Victoria whispered, her voice dead, completely stripped of its old arrogance. She didn't look at her daughter as she stumbled back toward the rusted Honda Civic.

Ten minutes later, they were tearing down the winding two-lane mountain road toward Route 9. The wipers were squeaking frantically against the glass, barely keeping up with the sheets of water cascading across the windshield. The heater in the Civic was blowing lukewarm air that smelled of burning dust.

"Drive faster," Fernanda muttered, her hands clenched into fists against her knees. "We have to pack. We have to clear out before the marshals get there. We can go to Canada—we still have that old account in—"

"Shut up, Fernanda," Victoria said, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Her eyes were fixed on the blinding headlights of a massive commercial truck coming around the sharp bend ahead, its high beams cutting through the gray wall of the storm.

"Mom, look out!" Fernanda screamed.

The truck drifted across the double yellow line, its massive dual tires hydroplaning on a sheet of standing water. Victoria yanked the wheel hard to the right. The Honda spun out, sliding off the slick asphalt and plunging down the steep, wooded embankment toward the rocky creek bed below.