Chapter 1 She's back.

Aubree pushed her weight against the heavy glass doors of Terminal 4.

The November wind hit her instantly. It was a brutal, physical strike that sliced through her thin, faded olive jacket. She narrowed her slate-blue eyes against the harsh afternoon sun. The air, thick with the screech of tires and blaring horns, tasted like exhaust fumes and stale asphalt.

She walked toward the pickup curb.

A worn-out black Chevrolet Suburban idled by the concrete barrier. A man in a cheap suit leaned against the passenger door. Carl. The Hopkins family driver. Carl was Gaye's man, hired long after Eleanor's death, and his loyalty was entirely bought by the stepmother's money. He held a piece of torn cardboard. The name Aubree was scribbled on it in thick, sloppy black marker.

Three women walked past Aubree. They dragged Louis Vuitton suitcases over the pavement. The wheels clicked loudly.

One of the women, a blonde in a cashmere coat, looked at Aubree's washed-out jeans. The blonde covered her nose.

"Smells like a homeless shelter," the blonde whispered to her friend. A sharp, mocking laugh followed.

Aubree did not blink. Her heart rate remained at a steady, resting sixty beats per minute. She kept walking straight toward Carl.

Carl saw her. He took a long drag from his cigarette. As Aubree stopped in front of him, he leaned forward and blew a thick cloud of gray smoke directly into her face.

The acrid smoke hit her eyes. He wanted her to cough. He wanted her to step back.

Aubree's breathing did not change. She stood perfectly still.

Carl smirked. He crumpled the cardboard sign in his fist and tossed it into a nearby trash can.

"Throw that garbage bag in the trunk yourself," Carl ordered. His voice was thick with boredom and disgust.

Aubree stopped walking. She slowly tilted her head a fraction of an inch. She raised her eyes and locked her gaze onto Carl's face.

It was the death stare of a Scythe top asset, a look that stripped away all pretense and saw only the target. There was no anger in her slate-blue eyes. There was no humanity. It was the calculated, empty look of a predator assessing the exact amount of force required to snap a prey's neck.

Carl's smirk froze.

A violent shiver ripped down his spine. The air in his lungs suddenly felt too thick to breathe. His stomach dropped, twisting into a cold, hard knot. He felt like a red sniper dot was resting right between his eyes.

The cigarette in his hand began to tremble.

Hot ash snapped off the end. It landed directly on his polished leather shoe. He didn't even notice the burn. Carl instinctively took a half-step backward. His shoulder blades slammed hard against the metal door of the SUV.

"Open it," Aubree said.

Her voice was flat. It held no volume, but it cut through the airport noise like a surgical blade.

Carl's brain short-circuited. His body moved before he could process the humiliation. His trembling hand reached out and yanked the rear door open.

Aubree tossed her canvas bag onto the floorboard. It landed with a solid, unexpectedly heavy thud that made the chassis vibrate slightly. She slid into the backseat. The car smelled like cheap pine air freshener and old leather.

Carl wiped a layer of cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He practically dove into the driver's seat.

He slammed his door shut. The engine roared to life. The Chevrolet pulled away from the curb in suffocating silence, heading toward the Upper East Side of Manhattan.