The taxi pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the Bullock estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. The sun was just starting to set.

Cora handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill and stepped out.

She looked up at the sprawling, English-style brick mansion. It was bought and paid for by her parents' blood, but Harlon treated it like his own kingdom. Her stomach churned with disgust.

She pushed open the heavy oak front door. The blinding light from the Swarovski crystal chandelier in the foyer made her squint.

Her Aunt Wanda was sitting on the velvet sofa, flipping through a copy of Vogue. She wore a silk robe. When she heard the door, she looked up.

Wanda's eyes dragged up and down Cora's cheap hoodie. Her upper lip curled in a sneer.

"You brought those hospital germs into my house," Wanda said sharply. She didn't say hello. She turned her head and yelled toward the kitchen. "Maria! Bring the Lysol spray to the foyer!"

Cora ignored her. She walked straight toward the grand staircase.

A figure stepped out onto the landing, blocking her path. Her cousin, Dustin.

He was spinning a Porsche key ring around his index finger. His eyes were bloodshot, his face puffy from too much alcohol and not enough sleep.

"Look who's back," Dustin sneered. "Run out of allowance already? Coming to beg my dad for a handout?"

Cora stopped on the bottom step. She looked at Dustin's face. In her past life, she had watched this exact man shove a pregnant woman down a flight of concrete stairs just to steal a single can of spam.

Cora stepped up, closing the distance until she was inches from his face.

"Move," Cora said. Her voice was a low, dead whisper. "Or I will take those car keys and shove them so far down your throat you'll choke on the metal."

Dustin's smirk faltered, but his ego wouldn't let him back down immediately. "Are you out of your damn mind?" he spat, raising a hand as if to shove her back down the stairs. But as his eyes locked onto the absolute, dead-eyed certainty in hers, his hand froze in mid-air. The suffocating aura of a killer washed over him, bypassing his bravado and striking pure, primal fear into his gut. He actually flinched, taking a hasty, stumbling step back until his spine hit the wooden banister.

Cora bumped her shoulder hard against his chest as she pushed past him. She walked down the second-floor hallway and went straight for the heavy double doors at the end.

She didn't knock. She grabbed the brass handles and shoved the doors open. They hit the walls with a loud bang.

Harlon was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth. Cora's grandmother, Myra, sat in a leather wingback chair near the fireplace.

Myra slammed her teacup down on the saucer. She struck the floor with the tip of her cane.

"Where are your manners, girl?" Myra barked. "You burst in here like a wild animal!"

Cora turned around, pushed the doors shut, and locked them with a loud click. She dropped her backpack onto the Persian rug and sat down in the chair opposite Harlon.

Harlon blew a thick cloud of gray smoke into the air. He crushed the cigar into a crystal ashtray and glared at her.

"The answer is no," Harlon said immediately. "I am not funding some imaginary digital coin scheme. You are financially illiterate."

Cora gripped the armrests of her chair. She forced her breathing to speed up, making her chest heave. She played the part of the angry, misunderstood teenager.

"It's the future!" Cora yelled, letting her voice crack. "You just don't understand technology! You want to keep me locked out of my own money forever!"

Myra let out a dry, hacking laugh. "You are exactly like your worthless mother. Always dreaming, never working."

Cora's jaw locked. The muscles in her neck went rigid. She wanted to rip the old woman's throat out, but she kept her face twisted in fake, helpless rage.

Harlon opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a thick stack of stapled papers and threw them across the desk. They slid and stopped right in front of Cora.

"This is an extension of the trust management," Harlon said smoothly. "It locks the principal until you are twenty-five. You get a monthly stipend. Sign it, and I'll forget this little tantrum."

Cora looked down at the papers.

Her heavy breathing stopped. Her hands relaxed on the armrests. The angry teenager vanished, replaced by something entirely different.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, black USB drive. She placed it gently on top of the contract.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Harlon stared at the piece of plastic. His eyes narrowed.

Cora leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.

"Since you don't like crypto," Cora said, her voice completely smooth and devoid of emotion, "let's talk about tax fraud and offshore shell companies."

Harlon's right eye twitched.

He forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow. "What kind of game are you playing, Cora?"

Myra struggled to her feet, pointing a shaking finger at Cora. "You ungrateful little bitch! How dare you threaten your family!"

Cora didn't even look at Myra. She reached down, unzipped her backpack, and pulled out her laptop. She opened it, plugged in the USB drive, and turned the screen so it faced Harlon.

A massive Excel spreadsheet filled the screen. In her past life, after Harlon had been violently killed during a supply run, a surviving FBI agent had drunkenly spilled the details of the federal investigation into the Bullock estate. Cora had memorized every single line of that report. It detailed exactly how the trust fund had been bled dry over the last five years. It showed the money moving through three different shell companies registered in the Cayman Islands, before being washed and deposited back into Harlon's private accounts.

Harlon leaned forward. His eyes scanned the numbers. The color drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly gray. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Let's see," Cora said, reading the screen upside down. "Apex Holdings. Blue Ocean LLC. And my personal favorite, the two million dollars you wired to buy that yacht in Miami last summer."

Harlon's breathing grew heavy. He lunged across the desk, his hands grabbing for the laptop.

Cora was faster. She slammed the screen shut, trapping his fingers for a second before pulling the laptop to her chest.

"That's just a copy," Cora said, her voice like ice. "The original files are on a dead-man's switch. If I don't walk out of this house tonight, or if you try to cancel my phone, those files get emailed directly to the IRS audit division tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM."

The letters IRS hit the room like a bomb.

Myra gasped, clutching her chest, and collapsed back into her chair. She didn't say another word.

Harlon gripped the edge of the desk. He stared at Cora as if he was looking at a monster he had never seen before.

"What do you want?" Harlon hissed through his teeth.

Cora leaned back in her chair. She held up one finger.

"One million dollars. Cash flow. Transferred to my personal Bank of America account by noon tomorrow."

Harlon slammed his fist on the desk. "The trust is tied up in real estate and stocks! I can't liquidate a million in cash in twelve hours!"

"Don't lie to me," Cora snapped. "You have at least three million sitting in your private UBS account in Switzerland. Use it."

Harlon slumped back into his leather chair. The fight completely left his body. He looked old.

He rubbed his face with both hands. "Cora... your parents wouldn't want this. We are family."

The mention of her parents made Cora's blood run cold. She stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the wood floor. She slammed both hands flat on his desk, leaning over him.

"Do not ever say their names again," Cora whispered, her voice vibrating with pure hatred. "This money is the price you pay to not die in a federal prison. Pay it."

Harlon swallowed hard. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

The silence stretched for thirty agonizing seconds.

"Fine," Harlon choked out. "Tomorrow."

Cora reached into her bag and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She slid it across the desk.

"Sign this," Cora demanded. "It's a legal declaration of a voluntary cash gift. If the bank flags the transfer for money laundering, this clears it."

Harlon's hands shook as he picked up his expensive fountain pen. He scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page.

Cora snatched the paper, folded it, and shoved it into her pocket. She packed up her laptop and slung the backpack over her shoulder.

She walked to the door and unlocked it. Before she opened it, she turned back.

She looked at the pathetic old woman in the chair and the broken man behind the desk.

"Have a wonderful winter in this house," Cora said softly.

She walked out and shut the door.

She walked down the hallway, her heart beating a steady, powerful rhythm. The first million was secured.

At 11:00 AM the next day, Cora sat in the corner booth of a small, grimy diner in Manhattan.

A cup of black coffee sat untouched in front of her, completely cold. She wore a black baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. Her thumb constantly swiped down on her phone screen, refreshing the banking app.

At 11:45 AM, the phone vibrated violently in her hand.

A push notification popped up: Incoming Wire Transfer.

She opened the app. The balance had jumped from $3,050.00 to $1,003,050.00.

Cora let out a long, shaky breath. The tension that had been knotting her shoulders for the last twenty-four hours finally released.

She threw a five-dollar bill on the table and walked out.

She hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in Queens. Twenty minutes later, she walked through the glass doors of an Enterprise truck rental center.

She ignored the rows of sedans and compact SUVs. She walked straight up to the counter.

"I need a Ford F-150 Raptor. The one with the enclosed bed cap," Cora told the salesman.

The guy looked at her skinny frame and the oversized hoodie. He smirked. "Are you sure, sweetheart? That's a lot of truck. We have a nice RAV4 right over here."

Cora didn't blink. She pulled out her credit card and slapped it on the counter.

"I want it for a month. Full insurance coverage. Run the card."

The salesman's smirk vanished when he saw the name on the card and the lack of hesitation. Ten minutes later, he handed her the keys.

Cora walked out to the lot. The black F-150 looked like a massive, armored beast.

She opened the heavy door, climbed into the driver's seat, and gripped the leather steering wheel. The physical weight of the machine gave her a massive surge of security. She started the engine. The V6 twin-turbo roared to life, vibrating through her boots.

She pulled out of the lot and merged onto the highway, heading toward a massive Costco on the edge of Brooklyn.

While sitting at a red light, she connected her phone to the truck's Bluetooth. She dialed a ghost-address leasing company.

Using a fake name, she rented five large P.O. Boxes and two abandoned self-storage units spread across New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and upstate New York. She needed the deliveries scattered so the algorithms wouldn't flag a massive hoarding event.

The light turned green. She slammed the gas pedal, leaving the sedans behind her in the dust.

She parked in the massive Costco lot. Before she got out, she opened her iPad. She logged into her Amazon Prime account and started reviewing the hundreds of items sitting in her cart.

Suddenly, the truck's infotainment screen lit up.

Incoming Call: Declan.

Cora stared at the name. Her eyes turned to ice. She hit the accept button and simultaneously tapped the record button on her phone.

"Hey, baby," Declan's voice filled the cabin, thick with fake affection. "Where are you? I stopped by the dorm with those lilies you like, but you weren't there."

Cora forced a heavy sigh. "I'm at my family lawyer's office in the city. It's a nightmare. I won't be back until late."

"Don't push yourself too hard," Declan said smoothly. Then, he paused. It was a calculated pause. "Did you get things sorted out with your uncle? About the trust?"

There it is.

Cora bit the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing. "No. He locked me out completely. I didn't get a single cent. I'm broke, Declan."

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

When Declan finally spoke, his voice was completely flat. The warmth was gone. "Oh. Well. That sucks. Look, I gotta go to practice. Talk later."

He hung up.

Cora listened to the dead dial tone. She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

She opened the truck door, pulled a black surgical mask over her face, and grabbed two oversized shopping carts.

It was time to spend some money.