MY COUSIN VISITED GRANDMA THREE TIMES IN EIGHTEEN MONTHS, WHILE I VISITED HER 186 TIMES—AND SOMEHOW I WAS THE SELFISH ONE FOR REFUSING TO L

Daniel stumbled backward, clutching his nose as a bright ribbon of blood spilled over his fingers. He hit the metal shelving with a loud crash, sending more dusty boxes tumbling to the floor.

"Run, Hannah!" Ruth screamed, grabbing my arm.

We didn't hesitate. We shoved past Chloe, who was standing frozen in shock, and ducked under the half-open storage door.

We sprinted across the dark parking lot, the cold rain now falling in heavy sheets. I clutched the manila envelope against my chest like a shield.

"Get in!" Ruth yelled, unlocking the Subaru.

We slammed the doors just as Daniel burst out of the storage unit, shouting my name into the rain. Ruth threw the car into reverse, tires spinning on the wet asphalt before catching traction and tearing out of the lot.

I sat in the passenger seat, gasping for air, my whole body shaking violently.

"He tried to attack us," I sobbed, the reality of my brother's betrayal finally breaking through the shock. "Daniel tried to attack me over money."

"He was protecting his inheritance," Ruth said grimly, keeping her eyes glued to the dark road. "With your parents facing fraud charges, Daniel knows the money dries up. He chose his wallet over his sister."

"Where are we going?" I asked, looking out the rear window. There were no headlights behind us yet, but I knew Daniel wouldn't just give up.

"To the police station," Ruth said firmly. "We have the wire transfers, the forged signature, and Grandma's statement. It's over for them."

I looked down at the thick envelope in my lap. The paper was damp from the rain, but the ink was legible.

As I adjusted my grip, a small piece of glossy paper slipped out from between the documents and fluttered onto the floor mat.

I reached down and picked it up.

It was a printed boarding pass.

Passenger: Chloe Miller.

Destination: Costa Rica.

Departure: Friday, 11:30 PM.

I stared at the date. Friday.

Tomorrow night.

The night before Grandma's funeral.

"Aunt Ruth," I said, my voice entirely hollow. "Chloe isn't reading the eulogy on Saturday. She isn't even going to be in the country."

Ruth glanced at the ticket. "She's running."

"Mom made a huge show of taking the eulogy from me today," I realized, the sickness returning to my stomach. "She caused a massive fight to distract me. They knew I'd be angry. They knew I'd fight about the speech. It was all smoke and mirrors."

"To keep you distracted while Chloe packed her bags and liquidated the rest of the accounts," Ruth finished, her grip whitening on the steering wheel. "If Chloe flees the country with the remaining money, she takes the blame for the forgery. Your parents play the victims, claiming their troubled niece stole from them."

"They're sacrificing her," I whispered. "After twenty years of treating her like a princess, they're using her as the ultimate scapegoat."

Ruth turned the car onto the main highway toward downtown. "Then we need to get to the precinct right now."

Suddenly, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.

It was a blocked number.

I hesitated, then pressed accept, putting it on speakerphone.

"Hello?" I said cautiously.

"Hannah."

The voice was deep, professional, and familiar.

"Mr. Harris?" I asked, confused. "Why are you calling from a blocked number?"

"Because I am breaking several professional protocols, and possibly the law, by making this call," the funeral director said quietly. "But given the letter your grandmother entrusted to me, I believe you need to know what just happened."

"What happened?" Ruth asked loudly from the driver's seat.

"Your father just left my office," Mr. Harris said. "He came in demanding to alter the funeral arrangements."

"He can't do that," I said. "Grandma pre-paid for everything."

"He presented a legal document naming Chloe Miller as the executor, and a signed proxy giving him authority to act on her behalf," Mr. Harris explained. "He downgraded the casket to the absolute cheapest pine box required by state law. He canceled the floral arrangements, the wake, and the reception."

A tear slipped down my cheek. "He's stealing the funeral budget."

"It's worse than that, Hannah," Mr. Harris said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "He changed the burial plot."

I froze. "What? No. Grandma bought the plot next to Grandpa thirty years ago. It's prime real estate in the cemetery."

"I know," Mr. Harris said. "Your father sold the plot back to the cemetery for a fifteen-thousand-dollar cash refund. He directed us to bury your grandmother in the overflow section on the edge of the property."

My heart shattered. After everything she had done for them, after the fortune they had stolen from her, my father was going to bury my grandmother in an unmarked patch of dirt just to squeeze a few more thousand dollars out of her corpse.

"Mr. Harris," I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying, absolute calm. "Where is my grandmother right now?"

"She is in the preparation room, Hannah."

"Lock the doors," I said. "Do not let my parents back inside. We are coming."