She refused to fall apart.

Not now.

Not ever.

Emotionally electrocuted, Crosby Dawes’s teeth ground through the pain. She pushed her way through the horde of photographers and reporters. Their shrill voices shouted out at her; their words chased her down the sidewalk. Police waved back at the hungry predators who wanted to carve her grief into time.

Crosby’s storm of dark waves swayed in front of her face. Late winter’s wind exposed her smeared liner. Delirious from lack of sleep, her feet stumbled, but she gathered her posture before she folded to the concrete.

Her family lived their lives out in the open, and what the world wanted to see was Crosby’s breakdown. Her dismantled life. The media would air out her family’s dirty laundry on the internet clothesline without a second thought.

“Whose body was found? Was it a robbery?” “Any suspects?” Reporters shouted.

A journalist sidestepped the police. “Where’s your father?”

Crosby’s nerves sizzled, fists shook. There was no escape. She halted and turned to face the media buzzards. “He’s dead. My father is dead.”

There was a slight pause, and then an assault of voices exploded all around her.

“Was he using again?”

“Drug deal gone wrong?”

“Did he overdose?”

“Is this in connection with Reed and Isla Pierce? Ms. Dawes, give us a statement.”

The loss consumed her, devoured organs and muscles. The rage. The sickness. Crosby was a lost woman who belonged to no one.

God help me.

Raw and exposed, Crosby approached the closest reporter, wearing aviators, a press nametag dangled from around his neck. “You want a statement — Korbin?” Crosby yanked the recording device from his hand and launched it over the crowd. The device bounced and shattered on the sidewalk; shiny bits fired up into the air. “There’s your statement.”

“You’ll pay for that.”

“Bill my attorney. Lily Graham. Michigan Avenue.”

Typical societal behavior. Curse the woman who, for the past sixty-seven minutes, stared at Lucas Dawes’s body on a sterile slab.

Loving father. Devoted husband.

Addict.

The incessant reporters thinned Crosby's tolerance. She turned and walked away from their questions and accusations to an idling SUV. It didn’t matter how Crosby pled her father’s case. To them, he was a relapsed junkie who died with a needle in his vein on the West Side. Another executive plagued by corruption and guilt. Amaranthine fell, as did the families — hers wasn’t the exception.

Crosby gulped her fury. Revenge was her business. It was a pill swallowed, in hopes of it killing the other person. Crosby ingested hers — slowly.

Softly.

She refused to fall apart.

Not now.

Not ever.

The SUV pulled away from the curb. The comment about Reed and Isla struck a nerve. Not because it was accusatory, but because it was fact. Everything done under Amaranthine was connected to all families involved directly or indirectly. It was the price of admission. It was the price of protection.

Crosby relished in the death of Martha Marie Walker. When she received the contract from Ellis, the price was of zero consequence.

* * *

Atlanta.

More like the suburbs.

Remodeled bungalow with bamboo hardwood floors, marble countertops, and porcelain fixtures — paid in cash.

Ronan Walker’s safe house wasn’t safe. Not even close. He’d become sloppy over the years, or perhaps Ronan didn’t care if Martha was found. Crosby located Isla’s grandmother quickly. At first, she thought it was a setup, but after a few days of surveillance, she deduced it was legit.

Martha wouldn’t be like the others.

Her father made Crosby’s instructions clear.

Martha was to suffer.