The coastal library’s archive room smelled… God, it stank—dusty books, old ink, like something rotten under the floorboards. Chairs creaked too loud, groaning, and every sound made her flinch. The cracked window let in a salty breeze that stung her throat. Camille sat stiff, too stiff, her back rigid, her heart slamming—wild, uneven. Lucas’s note—I’ve got proof to bury Tara—kept burning, scratching through her brain. The words didn’t stop, they repeated, like a bad song: Hand over Ellie or they go public.

Ellie was safe. She kept saying it—safe. At a friend’s house. But her head argued back—Is she? Is anywhere safe with Lucas alive? A raw tangle of fear,...