Chapter 3

Late that night, long after the great house had fallen silent, Corey knelt on the floor of her room. She slid a locked, worn leather box from under her bed. The key was on a thin chain she always wore around her neck, hidden beneath her shirt.

Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a single photograph. It was of her mother, Corinna Emerson. In the picture, her mother was smiling, a brilliant, full-throated laugh. But her eyes, even in her joy, held a familiar watchfulness. Inside the box, along with the photo, was the original paperwork for a trust. It was the only thing her mother had brought into the marriage-an inheritance from the Emerson side of the family, shielded from Isham's grasp and designated solely for Corey. It was her mother's final safeguard.

Corey's breath hitched. A memory surfaced, sharp and clear. She was six years old, and her mother was teaching her a "game." It involved memorizing the license plates of every car on their street. Another game was about finding north without a compass. Another was about how to walk through a crowd without being noticed.

They weren't games. They were lessons.

She remembered the night before her mother died. Corinna had given her this box, her hands tight on Corey's small shoulders. "Never, ever trust the Copelands," she had whispered, her voice urgent. "Promise me, Corey."

The official story was a tragic accident-a fall down the grand staircase of this very house. But Corey remembered other things. The sound of a strange car arriving late that night. The low, angry murmur of voices from Isham's study.

Years later, once she had the resources of the BTO at her disposal, she had pulled the original police and medical reports. They were a mess. Key details were redacted, and the timeline of events had been sloppily altered. The attending physician had emigrated to South America a month after her mother's death and had vanished completely.

It confirmed the cold certainty that had lived in her gut for years. It wasn't a tragedy. It was a murder.

Coming back to New York, marrying into the Fitzgerald family-it was all part of the plan. The Fitzgeralds were at the center of the power circle her mother had moved in. They were the key.

She placed the photo carefully back in the box, the warmth in her eyes replaced by a cold fire. Revenge was a patient game.

The next morning, she approached Isham. "I need a car. I want to visit my mother's grave before the wedding."

Isham, still smarting from their last encounter, waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. Whatever. Just don't be late for the final dress fitting." He saw it as a pointless, sentimental gesture. He was wrong.

Corey took the keys to a simple sedan and drove herself. No driver. No chaperone. She headed east, toward the Hamptons, where a stretch of coastline was reserved for the private cemeteries of New York's elite.

The drive was beautiful, the road winding along the glittering Atlantic. Corey didn't notice. Her mind was a chessboard, mapping out her next ten moves.

She pulled into the parking lot of the Seaview Memorial Park. The entrance was flanked by two men in immaculate black suits, earpieces discreetly tucked into their ears. They held up their hands as she approached.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. The cemetery is closed for a private event today."

"I'm just here to see my mother, Corinna Emerson," Corey said calmly. "I'll only be a few minutes."

"No one is permitted entry," the guard repeated, his face an impassive mask. "It's a direct order from the Fitzgerald family."

Corey's heart gave a slight jolt. Fitzgerald? The coincidence was too great to be one.

She looked past the guards, at the high stone walls topped with security cameras. A direct assault was out of the question.

She gave a small, defeated sigh. "I understand."

She turned and walked back toward her car, appearing to give up. The guards relaxed, dismissing her as just another disappointed visitor.

Corey got into her car, but instead of starting it, she watched them in her rearview mirror. She waited. Then, she drove to the far end of the parking lot, where a line of thick cypress trees obscured the view from the gate.

She opened her trunk. Inside was a small, nondescript backpack. She quickly swapped her flats for a pair of flexible, soft-soled athletic shoes.

She got out and looked at the wall. It was at least twelve feet high.

A confident smile touched her lips.

For the commander of BTO's special operations, a twelve-foot wall wasn't an obstacle. It was a warm-up.

She wasn't asking for permission to enter. She was just deciding on her point of entry.