At my two sons’ funeral, my wealthy mother-in-law slapped me in front of everyone and whispered: “You’re next.”

I left Emma with my sister and drove five hours north through the biting coastal wind to Maine.

The abandoned summer estate loomed on a rocky cliff overlooking the churning, dark Atlantic ocean. The wrought-iron gates were rusted, the massive windows boarded up. It looked like a haunted house, a fitting monument to the woman who owned it.

I bypassed the main gate by walking along the jagged coastline, slipping through a broken section of the perimeter fence. The wind howled, masking the sound of my footsteps as I approached the back patio.

I still remembered the layout from the week Trevor and I had spent here, blissfully unaware of the monsters lurking in his bloodline.

I used a rock to smash the glass pane of the French doors, reaching in to unlock the handle. The house smelled of dust, mold, and stagnant air.

I turned on my heavy flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness as I navigated the grand hallway toward the master study.

The study was exactly as I remembered it—floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, a massive leather desk, and an oppressive silence.

I walked to the eastern wall, tracing my fingers along the spines of the decaying books. Margaret had said it was behind the third panel. I found a subtle groove in the woodcraft. Pressing my weight against it, the heavy bookshelf clicked and swung outward on hidden hinges.

Behind the shelf sat a heavy, brushed-steel wall safe.

It required both a digital code and the brass key Margaret had given me.

My hands shook violently as I inserted the key into the lock. I stared at the digital keypad. I didn't know the code, but I knew Victoria’s profound, narcissistic obsession with her own legacy.