“Buy the bastards some milk,” my wealthy fiancée laughed, throwing a $20 bill at my ex-wife. I had thrown my ex out a year ago, believing she cheated. Now she was walking a dirt road, collecting cans with twin babies strapped to her chest. When I saw the babies had my exact hair and eyes, my blood turned ice. My ex just looked at me with terrifying pity. I hunted down the private investigator who handled my divorce. When I forced him open his safe, the documents inside revealed the darkest secret that shattered my life.

Passenger 1: Grant Whitmore.
Passenger 2: Tessa Whitmore.
Cargo: Medical Dependent (C. Bellamy).

I checked my watch. The blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and hollow. The flight wasn’t scheduled for tomorrow, or next week.

Departure time was 11:30 PM. Tonight.

It was currently 7:45 PM. The annual Whitmore-Bellamy corporate merger dinner—the crown jewel of our social calendar—started at 8:00 PM. They were going to smile for the cameras, toast to our future, and then slip away to the airstrip to harvest my daughter’s marrow.

I pocketed the file, my grief instantly incinerated by a rage so pure it tasted like copper. I had less than four hours to dismantle a billionaire’s empire and save a daughter I had never met.

I didn’t go to the police. Cops required warrants, and warrants took time. Time was the one currency I was flat out of.

Instead, I drove straight back to the suffocating rural outskirts of Franklin. It took me thirty minutes to track down the dilapidated farmhouse attached to the produce stand where Maren was staying. The porch sagged under the weight of the rain.