Bring him to justice, no matter what you have to do.

I clicked through the first fifty files. Seeing so many photos of my sister in happier times brought tears to my eyes. Maybe there was a photo of Theo and his first wife, but I wasn’t ready to deal with so much of my own family history to find it just then. I ejected the memory card and returned it to its plastic case. My screen switched to an article about my sister. I didn’t know why I hadn’t closed it. I noticed for the first time that the byline belonged to Abby Morel, the sparkling monster I’d encountered in front of the church.

The death of Caroline Thraxton has stunned New York. The former journalist turned socialite died during an early-morning run near the United Nations headquarters on First Avenue.

The facts of the case are still being established by the police. They believe Caroline Thraxton suffered cardiac arrest from an undisclosed heart condition at approximately six a.m. She fell on the Sharansky Steps above Ralph Bunche Park, injuring her head and arm. She was unconscious but still breathing when discovered by passersby but died en route to Tisch Hospital and was pronounced dead on arrival.

When asked whether drugs or foul play was involved in this sudden, shocking death—Mrs. Thraxton was a month shy of her 30th birthday—NYPD detective Luis Villaverde dismissed the idea. He called the incident an “unlucky accident,” adding that the socialite was caught on multiple security cameras during her run and there was nothing suspicious. “Plenty of folks have heart conditions they don’t know about,” he added. Detective Villaverde refused to answer questions about any possible drug use by the victim.

Mrs. Thraxton was the wife of Theodore Thraxton II, heir to the Thraxton International hotel fortune. Caroline Thraxton was employed by the company as their director of public relations. Mr. Thraxton could not be reached for comment, but his sister, Juliet Thraxton, released a statement to the press on behalf of the family.

“We are devastated by Caroline’s death,” the statement says. “It is a tremendous shock to us all. We can’t believe she’s gone.”

Caroline Thraxton is survived by her husband and her three-year-old son, Theodore Thraxton III, known to the family as Teddy.

My head buzzed and blood drummed inside my ears. It was like being a kid again, listening to the awful fighting going on in the next room, knowing I was powerless to fix it. There was a sharp pain in my chest, and I hunched over on the futon, hugging my knees, but that didn’t help.

“You’re not powerless,” I reminded myself out loud. “You can’t save your sister, but you can get justice for her. This is all on you.”

That determination propelled me forward. I brushed my teeth and fixed my makeup, feeling like a warrior readying for combat. I needed a tough shell if I was going to do what I had to for my sister. I flipped through the prints one more time.

“Damn it, Caro, couldn’t you have given me something solid, like the name of the first wife?” I muttered.

I tucked the photos and memory card back into the envelope. Then I pulled on a pair of tall black leather boots. I had one shot to round up some real evidence, and I wasn’t going to miss it.

CHAPTER 4

THEO

I don’t want to be married to you anymore. Why is that so hard to understand, Theo? Get out of my house.

When I stepped inside the church, I was surrounded by people, but all I could hear was my wife’s voice taunting me. Guests came up in turn, telling me how sorry they were. None of them were as sorry as I was.

It was impossible to believe that a little over a week earlier, I’d been in Bangkok, meeting with government officials and representatives from Thailand’s national museum about how to recover stolen artifacts. It had been oppressively hot and humid, to the point where the air seemed to shimmer at midday. I attempted to focus my mind in that direction.

It wasn’t enough to stop my heart from thudding a fatal drumbeat.

Get out of my house.

Those were the last words Caroline said to me before she died.

All I wanted was to steel myself to deliver her eulogy. I ducked into a tiny alcove at the back of the church for a few moments of quiet. Instead, I found my father and sister, chatting away like magpies.

“You have to admit it’s an impressive turnout,” my father said. “I haven’t seen this many people inside one building since the pandemic hit. Caroline was truly adored, wasn’t she?”

“They’re expecting a show, and they love a free lunch,” Juliet answered drily. “Half of them don’t know who Caroline was. The rest want to see what she looks like in the casket.”

“Your jealousy is showing again,” my father replied. “It’s downright ugly, Juliet.”

“Am I supposed to pretend I’m sorry she’s dead?”

That was the moment they noticed me. My father was the first to recover.

“Theo. How are you holding up, son? You look exhausted. Are you sure you’re up to delivering the eulogy? You don’t have to, you know. I would be honored to speak about Caroline.”

“I don’t need your help.” I was dreading the eulogy, but I’d be damned if anyone else delivered it.

“There it is, the old Thraxton charm,” Juliet said. “Sweet as a viper and twice as deadly. What a lady-killer.”

My sister was four years older than I was, and we despised each other. I felt bad about snapping at my father, because my sister was the one who deserved it.

“You look ridiculous,” I said. “Thanks for providing the comic relief at a funeral.”

It wasn’t much, but Juliet was sensitive about any comment on her appearance. She flinched.

“Stop it, both of you,” my father whispered, as if we were still children.

“Someone should greet the guests, instead of hiding back here,” Juliet said. “I guess I’m stuck doing all the work, as usual.” She strutted off, without a backward glance.

“I know it’s a heartbreaking day for you, son.” My father waved one hand, carelessly gesturing at the church. “I tried to make it something Caroline would’ve enjoyed. The flowers. The music.” He stared at the scene in front of us as if in a trance. “White roses and Mozart. She loved his Requiem.” He chuckled softly. “Remember when she said she wished you could use it for your wedding? She thought it was romantic.”

Caroline and I loved not only the music but also the legend of the anonymous man who commissioned the Requiem and the composer who’d attempted to steal it after Mozart’s death. When we met, I discovered that underneath Caroline’s sunny exterior beat a heart that loved all things dark and gothic. That wasn’t anything I wanted to share with my father. “Thank you. I couldn’t have managed it myself.”

“Of course.” My father’s smile dimmed. “Did you tell the nanny she could sit in the family pew?”

“Yes. Teddy is closer to Gloria than he is to just about anyone else.”

“It’s bad optics, Theo. Imagine a reporter getting a photo of Teddy being comforted by the help during the service. That doesn’t look good for any of us.”

“You can’t imagine how little I care about optics,” I said.

“Well, I do. Why couldn’t you leave Teddy with your sister?”

“I wouldn’t entrust a tadpole to Juliet’s care.”

“That’s not fair. She’s great with animals.” He grinned at me, as if he’d made a terrific joke.

“Where’s Ursula?” I asked. Ursula was my stepmother, and the only person in my family whose company I enjoyed, even though I was well aware that her pleasant temperament was managed by a steady supply of wine and vodka.

“She had a little accident this morning,” my father said.

“What happened?”

“She fell and hurt her wrist. Harris took her to the doctor in case it’s fractured.”

Harris was my father’s assistant and bodyguard, all rolled up in one grim package. “She was drunk?”

My father glanced around, in case a pair of ears was too close, and nodded.

“I understand if you want to leave here to see her,” I said.

“And reward her little stunt by missing Caroline’s funeral?” My father shook his head. “Look at all these people. The biggest funeral our family ever had was my father’s. But we didn’t have all of these fine-feathered friends turning up for it. He was well off, but people looked down on him. The Motel King. This is like something you see on TV.”

“Don’t talk about Caroline’s funeral as if it were a social occasion.”