After three years in prison, I returned home expecting nothing more than to embrace my father. Instead, my stepmother answered the door and coldly said, “He d.ied a year ago. This house is mine now.”

I climbed into the passenger seat of Maya's car, my chest still heaving with residual adrenaline.

"Did you get it?" she asked, her eyes wide as she pulled away from the curb.

"Reagan has a keycard in her safe at the house," I said, wiping the rain from my face. "And a digital authorization pass on her computer. We need both if we're going to get past the security at St. Jude's without triggering alarms."

"So we're breaking into your old house," Maya said, a nervous but determined edge to her voice.

"Not just yet," I said. "Tonight, Reagan and Vance are hosting a private VIP dinner at the Dennis Logistics headquarters. Carter mentioned it earlier—it’s to prepare the board members for the dissolution vote. The house will be empty, except for maybe a security guard. It's our best shot."

"Then we go now," Maya said, shifting gears and heading toward the Silver Lake neighborhood.

Twenty minutes later, we parked down the street from my childhood home. The massive house sat dark and quiet under the weeping willow trees, a stark contrast to the lively, warm home it had been when my mother was alive. The luxury SUV was gone, confirming Reagan was out.

I slipped out of the car, carrying a small toolkit I had taken from Maya's tugboat.

"Keep the engine running," I told her. "If you see a patrol car or anyone else pull up, flash your high beams twice."

"Be careful, Finnley," she said softly.

I ran across the manicured lawn, keeping low to avoid the security cameras I had spotted earlier. I reached the back patio. The old glass sliding door had been replaced with a modern security door, but I knew the weak points of this foundation better than anyone. There was a small basement coal chute window near the cellar that my father had never sealed properly.

I knelt in the mud, clearing away the damp leaves. Sure enough, the old wooden frame of the coal chute window was still there, painted over but rotting beneath.

I used a crowbar to pry the frame open. With a sharp splintering sound, the wood gave way. I squeezed my shoulders through the narrow opening, sliding down onto the dusty concrete floor of the cellar.

The air smelled of old paint and mildew—exactly as it had when I was a kid.

I climbed the wooden stairs to the main floor, my heart pounding in my ears. The house was dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator. I crept up the stairs to the master bedroom.

Reagan had redecorated everything. My father’s sturdy oak dresser had been replaced with a sleek, minimalist vanity. A massive king-sized bed dominated the room, covered in expensive silk sheets.

In the walk-in closet, hidden behind a row of designer fur coats, was the wall safe.

It was a digital keypad model. I knew Reagan’s favorite numbers—she was obsessed with her own image. I tried her birthdate. Access Denied. I tried the date she married my father—a day she had flaunted as her triumph. Access Denied.

I paused, thinking. What was the one thing Reagan cared about more than herself?

Money.

I tried the last four digits of her offshore account number from the ledger we had decoded on the tugboat.

Beep. Click.

The safe door popped open.

My breath caught. Inside were stacks of cash, velvet jewelry boxes, and a sleek, black keycard stamped with the logo of St. Jude’s Clinic. Next to it was a printed digital authorization form with Dr. Sterling's signature, blank in the "Visitor Name" field.

"Got it," I whispered, pocketing both the card and the paper.