Sarah's Face

She didn't just want the weapon; she wanted him to use it again. But before I could let Julian commit his next crime, I had a score to settle with the woman who had spent a year lying to my face. I didn't wait for the timer on my watch to hit zero. The moment Eleanor called, the test was over. Sarah had betrayed me in under an hour.

I drove to Sarah’s townhome, a sleek glass-and-steel box that felt as cold and transparent as her loyalty. I didn't call ahead. I wanted to see her face before she had time to arrange it into that mask of practiced Hayes sympathy.

She opened the door wearing a silk robe, a glass of Chardonnay in her hand. Her eyes widened, the rim of the glass clinking against her teeth. "Clara? What are you doing here? I thought we were laying low."

I pushed past her into the living room, my movements sharp and clinical. I didn't sit down. I stood in the center of her designer rug, the physical evidence of her betrayal tucked into my leather portfolio.

"You told her, Sarah," I said, my voice a flat, dead line. "I asked for one thing. One moment of genuine family support. And you ran straight to Eleanor."

Sarah set the wine glass down on a marble coaster, her chin lifting with that inherited arrogance. "I did what was best for the family, Clara. Julian is out of control. If he has a gambling problem, Arthur needs to manage it. You’re too emotional to see the big picture."

"The big picture?" I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "The big picture is that you’re a coward. You’re so terrified of your father that you’d rather throw your brother—and me—under a bus than risk a single uncomfortable dinner."

"You don't understand how things work in this family," Sarah snapped, her face flushing a deep, angry red. "We protect the assets. We protect the name. You’re just a guest in this house, Clara. Don't forget that."

I opened the portfolio. I didn't pull out the forged decree or the mortgage. I pulled out a single, stapled document I’d printed from the *Internal Resolution* folder. The embezzlement reconciliation.

I laid it on the coffee table, right next to her wine.

"I’m not a guest, Sarah," I said, leaning over the table until I was inches from her face. "I’m the auditor. And I just found the record of the quarter-million dollars you stole from Sterling & Vance."

Sarah's face drained of color. 'Where did you get that?'