My brother brought an eight-million-dollar buyer into the bedroom where he kept me locked up. “Nobody wants a blind singer who’s difficult,” he sneered. Beneath my bandages, my eyes burned. “Ask him who owns the songs,” I told the buyer. Papers rustled. Nobody answered. Then my bedside speaker announced a message from my attorney—and my brother suddenly wanted everyone out of the room.

The library smelled of dust, old leather bindings, and cedarwood.

I moved through the shadows with the silent, practiced grace of someone who had spent her youth memorizing the dark corners of backstage theaters. My vision, though still slightly blurred around the margins, had sharpened considerably. The burning sensation had retreated, replaced by a cool, pulsing ache that I could easily ignore.

The service door between the library and Daniel’s study was concealed behind a false bookshelf. It had been installed by the previous owner, a wealthy industrialist who liked having a private exit during boring business meetings. I pressed my ear against the paneling.

Daniel was still pacing. His voice was raw, ragged, cracked with the strain of a man who realized the walls were closing in.

"Arthur, listen to me," Daniel was saying, his voice dropping into a desperate, cajoling whine. "Six million. That’s a fifty-percent discount on the most valuable female pop catalog of the last decade. You can license 'Hollow Crown' to five different streaming networks tomorrow morning for two million alone! All you have to do is send your armored transport to Greenwich tonight. The physical reels are packed in four flight cases. Take them. Take the signed assignment."

A metallic voice came through Daniel’s speakerphone. Arthur Vance sounded completely sober, completely detached, and deadly cold.

*"My legal counsel has reviewed the filings from Marcus Sterling, Daniel,"* Vance said flatly. *"Sterling doesn't bluff. He’s already filed an ex parte notice of lis pendens with the federal court. If my transport touches those tapes tonight, I become an accessory to grand theft of trust property. The deal is dead. And if you ever call my personal line again, I will hand every email you’ve ever sent me directly to the United States Attorney."*

The call went dead with a clean, sharp click.

"Vance! Arthur! Don't you hang up on me—"

Daniel roared in frustration, slamming his phone down onto the heavy mahogany desk with enough force to crack the casing.

Through the narrow crack in the false bookshelf, I watched him.

His expensive designer suit was rumpled, his silk tie undone and hanging loose around his collar. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot, wild with the toxic mix of panic and narcissism that had governed his entire life. On the desk in front of him sat an open bottle of Macallan, a half-empty glass, and a black semi-automatic handgun resting squarely atop a stack of file folders.

Beside the desk, sitting on the Persian rug, were four heavy aluminum flight cases—the analog master tapes. My life’s work, packed up like cheap luggage.

Daniel turned his back, walking toward the far wall where his personal floor safe sat concealed behind an oil painting of our late mother.

The sight of our mother’s portrait hanging above his den of thievery sent a cold, sharp spike of disgust through my spine. She had worked sixty hours a week scrubbing floors so that we could have piano lessons, and Daniel had reduced her memory to a decorative cover for a safe full of stolen money and forged contracts.

He swung the painting aside and spun the combination dial with rapid, nervous clicks.

*Left 42. Right 18. Left 89.*

I memorized the numbers instantly.

The heavy chrome door of the safe swung open with a dull, oiled hiss. Daniel reached inside and pulled out a thick, navy-blue ledger book, along with several stacks of hundred-dollar bills banded in white paper straps.

"Stupid, ungrateful little bitch," Daniel muttered to himself, his voice trembling with venomous rage. "I made you. You were nothing before I put you on that stage. Nothing. A skinny girl with an acoustic guitar who couldn't even look an A&R executive in the eye without shaking."

He threw the cash into an open leather duffel bag on the floor.

"If I don't get the eight million, nobody gets it," he hissed, pulling a heavy brass Zippo lighter from his pocket. He stared at the four aluminum flight cases containing the master tapes. "A tragic electrical fire. An unstable, blind sister who knocked over a space heater in her delirium. That’ll play. That’ll buy me six months with the insurance underwriters."

My blood ran cold.

He wasn't just planning to destroy the tapes. He was planning to burn the house down with me inside it, framing it as an accidental tragedy caused by my own disability.

I didn't wait.

I stepped back from the false bookshelf, slipped out of the library, and glided silently down the rear service corridor toward the kitchen.

Clara was standing by the center island, her face pale as chalk, clutching a steaming ceramic mug with white knuckles. When she saw me walk into the kitchen with my bandages pushed up and my eyes wide open, she gasped, nearly dropping the mug.

"Miss Mercer!" she breathed.

"Clara, listen to me very carefully," I whispered, gripping her forearm with iron strength. "Daniel is planning to set fire to the east wing within the next ten minutes. He has an accelerant, he has a gun, and he believes I am asleep in the bedroom."

Clara’s knees buckled, but I held her upright.

"What do we do?" she panicked, tears streaming down her cheeks. "The gates are locked! We can't get out without his key fob!"

"We don't need to get out through the gate," I said. "Go to the basement stairs right behind the pantry. There is an exterior bilco storm door that opens directly onto the back terrace. Unlatch it, run across the lawn into the tree line, and stay there until the police arrive."

"What about you?"

"I’m going to make sure he never touches those tapes," I said.

I picked up the heavy stainless-steel chef's knife resting on the cutting board, along with a can of commercial degreaser from under the sink.

"Go, Clara. Now!"

Clara nodded frantically, turned on her heel, and vanished down the basement stairs.

I took a deep, steadying breath. I lowered the thin white gauze back over my eyes, letting the edges hang down just enough to conceal my pupils while keeping my line of sight clear.