But someone else had.
Beyond the curtains, somewhere past the dark garden and the rows of cedar trees, trained officers were waiting. They had been instructed not to approach until they knew exactly what was happening inside.
Marcus pointed the g/u/n toward the table.
“Sign.”
His voice was quieter now.
That frightened Rachel more than his shouting had.
I looked down at the document. Beneath the false paragraphs and fabricated legal language waited a blank line marked with my name.
Eleanor Whitmore.
They wanted my home, my accounts, and control of the family company my husband had built before his d/e/@/th.
They wanted everything.
And they believed one signature would give it to them.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking me to sign,” I said.
Marcus laughed without humor.
“I understand perfectly.”
“No,” I replied. “You understand what Rachel told you.”
Rachel stiffened.
Marcus glanced at her.
