The sky over Greenwood Cemetery was the color of a bruise. A cold, persistent rain drizzled down, soaking into the black fabric of Beverley's dress.

The small white casket seemed impossibly tiny sitting on the platform above the grave. It was covered in a blanket of white roses, the petals already dotted with raindrops.

Beverley stood still, an umbrella held over her head by Tessa. Her best friend's arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, the only thing keeping her upright.

Dennison Stevenson stood on the other side of the grave. He leaned heavily on his cane, his face ashen. Two large bodyguards stood behind him, holding black umbrellas, keeping the rest of the cemetery at bay.

There was no one else. No family. No friends. Just the three of them and the priest.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," the priest murmured, his voice barely audible over the rain.

Beverley stepped forward. She picked up a single white rose from the top of the casket. She leaned down, her lips brushing the wet wood.

"Sleep well, my little soldier," she whispered.

The casket began to lower into the ground. The mechanical whir of the winch was loud in the silence. Tessa pulled Beverley back, letting her lean against her shoulder. The tears finally came, mixing with the rain on her face.

Dennison walked over to her after the casket was out of sight. He took her hand in his. His grip was firm, despite his age.

"Go back to the apartment," he said, his voice rough. "I have people looking into the surgery. I will get answers. And I promise you, Ellwood will not be there. I've made sure of it."

Beverley nodded. She didn't have the energy to speak.

The car ride back to Fifth Avenue was silent. The city flashed by, indifferent to her grief.

She walked into the penthouse, planning to grab Aiden's things and leave. She never wanted to step foot in this place again.

But the moment the elevator doors opened, she heard it.

Laughter. A woman's giggle. The soft sound of jazz playing from the speakers.

Beverley stepped into the foyer. She walked down the hall and stopped at the entrance to the living room.

Ellwood was sprawled on the sofa, a glass of red wine in his hand. Kaleigh Frederick was curled up against him, wearing nothing but one of Ellwood's dress shirts. Her bare feet were tucked under his thighs.

The air smelled of roasted garlic and expensive perfume.

Ellwood looked up. He didn't jump. He didn't hide Kaleigh. He just smirked.

"Oh, the performance is over?" he asked, taking a sip of his wine. "How was your little play-acting?"

Kaleigh sat up, pulling the shirt tighter around her. She widened her eyes, her lower lip trembling. "Ellwood, maybe we shouldn't be here... I don't want to upset her."

"Upset me?" Beverley's voice was barely a whisper.

Her eyes swept the room. They landed on the coffee table.

Aiden's Lego Star Destroyer. The one he had spent three weeks building. It was sitting on the glass surface. But it wasn't intact. The front section had been snapped off. And sitting in the middle of the broken pieces, crushing the tiny plastic bricks, was a crystal ashtray. A lit cigarette was smoldering in it, the ash spilling over the grey plastic.

Something inside Beverley snapped. The thread that had been holding her together, the one that told her to be civilized, to be the bigger person, evaporated.

She turned around and walked into the kitchen.

Ellwood chuckled from the living room. "Running away again, Beverley? It's getting old."

Beverley ignored him. She opened the cabinet and pulled out the glass carafe. It was full. The coffee maker had just finished brewing. Steam rolled off the dark liquid.

She grabbed the handle. She didn't bother with a mug.

She walked back into the living room.

Kaleigh saw her first. Her eyes went wide. "Beverley, what are you—"

Beverley didn't stop. She walked right up to the sofa. She raised the carafe and tilted it.

A stream of boiling hot coffee poured down onto Ellwood's chest and lap.

Ellwood let out a choked roar of pain. He jerked forward, instinctively shielding Kaleigh, taking the brunt of the scalding liquid on his shoulder and arm.

Kaleigh shrieked. A splash of the hot coffee hit her arm. She scrambled back, clutching her elbow, her face contorted in a dramatic grimace. "Ow! Oh my god, it burns!"

Ellwood looked up, his face red with pain and rage. "You psycho bitch!"

Beverley dropped the carafe. It shattered on the hardwood floor.

Ellwood tried to stand, but he was off balance, his skin already blistering.

Beverley stepped forward. She lifted her right foot. The stiletto heel of her black pump was sharp.

She drove it down into Ellwood's calf with every ounce of strength she had left. There was a sickening, wet thud as the heel punched through the fabric of his trousers and deep into the muscle beneath. Ellwood howled, his leg buckling. He dropped to one knee, clutching his calf, his face white with agony.

Beverley stood over him. She looked down at the man she had once loved, the man who had killed her son and mocked her grief.

"Aiden Stevenson is dead," she said, her voice colder than the rain outside. "I buried him today."

She stepped around him, ignoring Kaleigh's dramatic sobbing. She walked into Aiden's room and slammed the door. She turned the lock.

Beverley sat on Aiden's bed, her back pressed against the door. She could hear the chaos on the other side.

"You need a doctor!" Kaleigh was crying. "Ellwood, your arm is blistering! Your leg—oh my god, you're bleeding!"

"Call the car," Ellwood growled. His voice was tight with pain. "Now."

Footsteps—uneven, limping—stomped past the door. The front door slammed.

Silence fell over the apartment. Beverley let out a shaky breath. She looked down at the T-Rex in her lap. She pulled the sleeve of her sweater over her hand and wiped at the ash stain on its nose.

An hour passed. Maybe two. The apartment was dead quiet.

Then, the click of the front door.

Uneven footsteps walked down the hall. A distinct limp, punctuated by the soft thud of a cane she hadn't heard before. They stopped outside Aiden's door.

The handle jiggled. Then, a key turned in the lock. Ellwood pushed the door open.

He stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on a black cane, his weight shifted onto his good leg. His shirt was unbuttoned, showing a large, red burn on his chest. His arm was wrapped in white gauze. His injured calf was bandaged beneath his trousers, the bulk of the dressing visible, his stance awkward and pained. His face was a mask of fury.

He threw a piece of paper at her. It fluttered down onto the bed. A medical report.

"Second-degree burns," he said, his voice vibrating with anger. "Soft tissue damage to the calf. Kaleigh's arm might scar. You've outdone yourself."

Beverley looked at the paper, then up at him. She said nothing.

"She almost died for me in Bogota!" Ellwood shouted, stepping into the room, his cane thumping against the floor. "She had a fever for three days in that jungle. It damaged her heart permanently. And you, you jealous, spiteful woman, you hurt her again because you can't stand that she's better than you!"

Beverley's jaw clenched. The Bogota lie. Again.

"You are going to the hospital," Ellwood commanded. "You are going to apologize to her. And you are going to take care of her until she recovers."

"I refuse," Beverley said.

Ellwood's eyes narrowed to slits. "You refuse? Vaughn Industries has a lot of overseas contracts, Beverley. It would be a shame if those contracts were suddenly audited. Or canceled."

Beverley's stomach dropped. He wasn't just threatening her. He was threatening her family. Her parents. Her brother.

He knew exactly where to hit her.

Outside the window, the rain had turned to snow. Huge, fat flakes were slamming against the glass. The wind was howling.

"The driver is gone," Ellwood said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "You can take your own car. Or you can walk. But if you're not at New York Presbyterian in one hour, I will make a phone call."

He paused at the door, leaning on his cane. "And Beverley? Where is my son? The twenty-four hours are ticking."

He limped out. A minute later, the front door slammed again.

Beverley stood up. She looked out the window. The blizzard was a whiteout. The city had issued a red alert.

She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. It was a deep, internal cold. Hypothermia. The chronic condition she had developed in the jungles of Colombia seven years ago. The cold rain, the fever, the shock—it had damaged her internal thermostat.

Exposure to extreme cold could kill her. Ellwood had seen her collapse from it twice before—once in their second year of marriage when the penthouse heating failed, and once last winter when she'd been locked out on the balcony by mistake. He knew.

He was sending her into a blizzard. He was risking her life to get Kaleigh an apology.

She pulled on her thickest wool coat. She wrapped a scarf around her neck. She grabbed her car keys and walked out the door.

The wind hit her like a wall of ice the moment she stepped outside. The snow was already ankle-deep. Her car was parked in the underground garage, but the streets were a nightmare.

She drove slowly, the windshield wipers struggling against the onslaught. She made it two blocks before the car hit a patch of black ice hidden under the snow.

The vehicle spun. The back end fishtailed. Beverley slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The car jumped the curb and slammed into a fire hydrant.

The impact deployed the airbag. It smacked her in the face, stunning her. The engine sputtered and died.

The heat stopped.

"No, no, no," she muttered, turning the key. The engine clicked. Dead.

The cold rushed in. It seeped through the windows, through the coat, through her skin. It settled into her bones.

She pulled out her phone to call for help. The screen flickered. The battery icon flashed red. The phone died.

The cold was paralyzing. Her fingers went numb. Her breathing slowed. The shivering stopped, which was a bad sign.

She leaned her head back against the headrest. The world was turning white.

In the silence, she heard a small voice.

"Mama."

Aiden was standing in the snow, holding out his hand. He was smiling.

Beverley smiled back, her eyes fluttering shut. Maybe this was easier. Maybe she could just go to sleep.

Warmth.

It was the first thing she felt. Heavy, thick blankets. A soft beeping sound.

Beverley opened her eyes. The ceiling was white. The room smelled of antiseptic.

A woman in scrubs was adjusting an IV bag on the pole next to the bed. She saw Beverley move and let out a sigh of relief.

"Mrs. Stevenson? Can you hear me?"

Beverley swallowed. Her throat was raw. "What happened?"

"You're at New York Presbyterian," the nurse said. "A snowplow driver saw your car stuck on the curb. You were unconscious. Your core temperature was dropping fast. Another half hour, and we wouldn't have been having this conversation."

Beverley closed her eyes. She was alive. She wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

"Was my husband... did he come?" she asked.

The nurse's expression tightened. She shook her head slowly. "Mr. Stevenson hasn't been here. But he did call the nurses' station. He asked about the condition of another patient. Ms. Frederick."

Beverley let out a bitter laugh that hurt her chest. Of course.

The nurse—her name tag read Brenda Carr—pulled up a chair. She sat down, looking nervous. She glanced at the door, then back at Beverley.

"Mrs. Stevenson," Brenda whispered. "I was on duty the day your son had his surgery."

Beverley's head snapped toward her. The fog in her brain cleared instantly.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Brenda said, wringing her hands. "But I can't sleep. I keep seeing his face."

"Tell me," Beverley said, her voice hard.

"The anesthesia log," Brenda said, her voice trembling. "The dosage they gave Aiden... it was way too low. Dr. Caldwell, the surgeon, he argued with the hospital administrators about it. He said it wasn't safe. But they overruled him."

"Why?" Beverley asked, leaning forward, ignoring the pain in her chest.

"They said they needed to keep the tissue viable," Brenda whispered, tears in her eyes. "They wanted him conscious enough to... I don't know. But he was in pain, Mrs. Stevenson. He was awake during the surgery."

Beverley felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Aiden, awake. Aiden, in pain. While Ellwood was planning a fireworks show.

"Dr. Alistair Caldwell," Beverley repeated, locking the name away.

"Please, don't tell them I told you," Brenda begged, standing up. "I have to go."

She hurried out of the room.

Beverley didn't hesitate. She pulled the IV needle out of her arm. Blood welled up, but she ignored it. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she gripped the side of the bed to steady herself. She swung her legs over the side. The nurse had thoughtfully placed her personal effects, now dry, in a plastic bag on the bedside table. She grabbed her coat, her phone—now with 3% battery—and her car keys.

A doctor tried to stop her at the door, but she pushed past him. "I'm leaving. Sign the papers or don't. I don't care."

She took the elevator down to the basement parking garage. She needed to find her car. She needed to find Dr. Caldwell.

The garage was dim. The concrete pillars cast long shadows. She spotted her car—the front end was crumpled, evidence of the crash. A tow truck had brought it here, leaving it parked crookedly in a corner spot.

She was walking toward it when she heard a voice.

"Ellwood, I told you it's fine."

Beverley stepped back into the shadows. Kaleigh Frederick walked out from between two parked cars. Her son Ryan was trailing behind her, holding a toy truck.

Kaleigh's arm was wrapped in a thick, bulky bandage, identical to the one Ellwood had been wearing. It looked serious, but as she gestured, the edge of it slipped, revealing perfectly unblemished skin for a fraction of a second before she quickly tugged it back into place.

Ryan saw Beverley walking toward her car. He ran over and threw his toy truck near the rear tire.

Beverley frowned. She didn't have time for this. She pulled out her phone to call a cab instead—her car was clearly undrivable.

Ryan suddenly darted toward her car. He threw himself onto the ground behind the rear tire, screaming.

"Ryan!" Kaleigh shrieked. She ran over, scooping the boy up into her arms. "Oh my god! Beverley! How could you try to run him over?"

Ryan was wailing, clutching his knee. There wasn't a scratch on him.

Kaleigh looked up at Beverley. Her eyes were wide with mock terror, but underneath the act, there was a smirk. A cold, calculating smirk that said, "I own you."

Beverley understood instantly. It was a setup. A perfect, little trap.

Heavy footsteps—uneven, accompanied by the thump of a cane—echoed from the other end of the garage.

Ellwood appeared, his face dark, his burned arm in a sling, his injured leg forcing him into a pronounced limp. He must have been upstairs with Kaleigh.

He saw Ryan crying. He saw Kaleigh on the ground. He saw Beverley standing near her wrecked car.