The scalpel stopped moving. He held it by the tip, extending it toward Alys.

"Lift your chin."

Alys obeyed. The cold metal pressed against her skin, right over her jugular.

"Elena sold me a mute," Gustaf said, his voice low and dangerous. "But you have a lot to say with your eyes."

Alys trembled. She made sure he felt it-the vibration of fear traveling through the blade to his fingers.

He leaned forward. He sniffed.

"Sage," he murmured. "And... sea salt."

His eyes narrowed. He remembered the smell.

He grabbed Alys's wrist. His grip was iron. He was feeling for a pulse, for the calluses of a fighter, or maybe the gun oil from a weapon.

Alys had to break the moment.

She let her knees buckle. She pitched forward, flailing.

Her hand swept across the desk, knocking over the cup of steaming tea. The hot liquid splashed directly onto his lap.

If he were paralyzed, he wouldn't flinch.

But his thigh muscles jumped. A microscopic reaction, instantly suppressed.

Alys fell to her knees, her hands landing on his legs. She pressed her thumb into the inside of his thigh-a pressure point.

He grunted. A sharp intake of breath.

He felt it.

"Clumsy," he snarled, pushing Alys away.

She scrambled back, wiping at the tea with her sleeve, hiding her face. Hiding the smirk.

Got you.

Gustaf stared at Alys. He was calculating. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of white fabric. It was torn, stained with mud and blood.

"Have you seen this before?" he asked.

It was a piece of Alys's hospital gown.

She looked at it blankly. She shook her head.

He studied her face for a long time. The silence stretched, tight as a piano wire.

"You're moving in here," he said suddenly.

Alys froze. She shook her head frantically. No.

"I don't trust you out of my sight," he said. "Your things are already being moved to the suite."

That night, Alys lay on a rug at the foot of his massive bed.

The room was dark. She could hear his breathing. It was steady, rhythmic.

Alys knew he wasn't asleep. She knew he had a gun under his pillow.

She waited until 3:00 AM.

Alys rolled over, silent as smoke. She crawled toward the nightstand where his laptop sat charging.

She didn't open it. That would trigger an alert.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the USB charger she'd modified in the greenhouse. It looked like a standard cable, but inside the casing was a keylogger.

She unplugged his cable. She plugged hers in.

The bathroom door opened.

Alys froze.

Gustaf stood there, wrapped in a towel. Water dripped from his hair onto his chest. He was looking right at her.

Alys snatched a book from the nightstand-The Art of War. She held it up, looking innocent.

He stared at her, then at the book.

"You read Sun Tzu?" he asked.

Alys shrugged. She pointed to the cover art.

He walked past her. He flicked his wet hair, sending a spray of cold water onto her face.

"Don't drool on the carpet," he said.

He got into bed.

Alys lay back down, her heart thumping against the floorboards.

The keylogger was in. The Trojan Horse was inside the walls of Troy.

Gustaf left the estate at noon for "physical therapy."

Alys knew he was going to a board meeting in a safe house.

She opened her laptop in the greenhouse. The keylogger had done its job. She had his password.

Access Granted.

Alys didn't look at Greer Industries files. She looked for Elena.

She traced her offshore accounts. And she found it.

The Debutante Ball.

Tonight. The Plaza Hotel. Brisa was being presented to society. The guest list was full of potential investors Elena was trying to seduce to cover the holes in the Flores accounts.

"Perfect," Alys whispered.

She hacked into the hotel's network, not the guest list. She didn't add names; she added vulnerabilities. She added three names to the media alert system: The most vicious tabloid journalists in the city.

Then she accessed the official invitation sent to the Greer estate. She simply RSVP'd 'Yes' for two, adding a note requesting special wheelchair access at the main entrance, ensuring their arrival would be a spectacle.

The door to the greenhouse beeped.

Alys slammed the laptop shut.

Gustaf rolled in. He looked at Alys, then at the computer. The screen was black, but the fan was whirring.

He wheeled over and touched the casing. It was warm.

He looked at Alys. He didn't ask.

He tossed a velvet box onto her lap.

"Put it on. We're going out."

Alys opened the box. A diamond necklace. Heavy, gaudy, old-fashioned. It was a collar.

She put it on.

The Plaza ballroom was a sea of pastel silk and fake smiles.

When Alys wheeled Gustaf onto the red carpet, the air changed. The cameras turned away from Brisa.

"Is that the sister?"

"Is that Gustaf Greer?"

They were the freaks. The spectacle.

Brisa saw them. Her face twisted. She marched over, holding a glass of red wine.

"You shouldn't be here," she hissed, leaning in to hug Alys. "You look like a dog wearing a crown."

Brisa pulled back. She stumbled, "accidentally" tipping her glass toward Alys's white dress.

Alys saw it coming a mile away.

She didn't step back. She pivoted. She rotated her hip, bumping Brisa's arm.

The wine didn't hit Alys. It splashed all over Gustaf's lap.

The ballroom went silent.

Brisa gasped. She had just soaked the most powerful man in New York.

Gustaf looked down at his ruined trousers. Then he looked at Brisa. His eyes were dead sharks.

Alys pulled a handkerchief from her clutch. She knelt, frantically dabbing at his legs.

Under the fabric, she pinched his thigh. Hard. Play along.

Gustaf looked at Alys. A flicker of amusement crossed his face.

"Miss Flores," he said, his voice carrying across the silent room. "Your hospitality is as cheap as your wine."

Hector Flores ran over, sweating. "Mr. Greer, please, she didn't mean-"

"We're leaving," Gustaf said.

Alys wheeled him out.

In the private lounge, Gustaf stood up. He grabbed a towel and wiped his pants.

"You did that on purpose," he said.

Alys walked to the mirror. The steam from the adjacent bathroom clouded the glass.

She wrote with her finger: Oops.

Gustaf stared at the word. Then he looked at Alys.

"You're dangerous," he said.

Alys smiled. He had no idea.

"Stay here," Gustaf ordered. He went up to the VIP balcony to watch the carnage.

Alys stayed on the floor. The lights dimmed. The giant screen above the stage lit up.

"And now," the announcer boomed, "A tribute to our debutante, Brisa Flores."

Alys slipped her hand into her clutch and pressed the button on her phone, triggering the script she'd embedded in the hotel's AV system.

The screen flickered.

The baby photos disappeared.

In their place, screenshots appeared. Emails.

Subject: Harvard Admissions.

Body: The wire transfer of $500k is confirmed. The rowing photos are photoshopped as requested.

The crowd gasped.

Next image. A medical report. Rhinoplasty. Chin implant. Liposuction.

Next. A video of Brisa screaming at a maid, calling her racial slurs.

Brisa screamed on stage. "Turn it off! Turn it off!"

But the system was locked.

Hector Flores saw Alys. He saw the phone in her hand.

He charged through the crowd. "You little bitch!"

He raised his hand. A heavy gold ring glinted on his finger.

Alys didn't flinch. She waited until the hand was inches from her face.

She didn't move to strike him. Instead, she held up her phone, its screen facing him. It displayed a live feed of his offshore bank account, the balance rapidly draining to zero. A single line of text pulsed beneath it: TOUCH HER AND IT'S GONE FOREVER.

Hector's arm froze mid-air. His face went from purple rage to ashen white. He stared at the screen, then at Alys, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Alys threw herself backward, landing on the floor, covering her face.

"Don't hit me!" she cried out-a silent scream.

From the balcony, Gustaf watched. He didn't see a strike. He saw Hector freeze for no apparent reason. He saw Alys's phone. He saw the absolute terror on Hector's face. He saw a weapon far more potent than a fist.

"Clever girl," he whispered.

Elena dragged Alys into the backstage dressing room.

"You ruined everything!" Elena grabbed a pair of scissors from the vanity.

Alys stood up. She stopped slouching. She dropped the fear.

She walked toward Elena.

"Put it down, Elena," Alys said. Her voice was clear. Cold.

Elena froze. The scissors clattered to the floor. "You can speak?"

"I can do a lot of things. Like send the IRS the ledger of your Cayman Island accounts."

Elena backed up against the wall. "What do you want?"

"The truth. About that night. Who killed my mother?"

Elena's hands shook. Her eyes darted around, looking for an escape. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Alys took a step closer. "The cleaner you hired left a digital footprint. A ghost in the machine. I just need a name to attach it to."

Fear won. "I paid him in cash," Elena stammered. "He uses a proxy. A pawn shop in Queens. They call him 'The Spider'."

Alys took the information, filing it away.

She walked out into the hallway.

Gustaf was leaning against the wall.

"That was quite a performance," he said.

Alys didn't stop. She kept her face a blank mask, reverting to the mute girl.

He grabbed her arm. He pulled her close.

"That little trick with the phone. I saw it. You're the one from the cliff, aren't you? The ghost in the hospital gown."

Alys looked up at him. She didn't answer. She didn't need to. He didn't have proof, only a gut feeling. And right now, his gut feeling was her shield.

He laughed. A low, dark sound.

"We're going to have fun, wife."