Downstairs, the sound of my luggage being unzipped echoed loudly up the stairwell.
Heather’s voice shrieked from the foyer:
“Mark!
The money isn’t in her bag!”
I didn’t move an inch.
Because the money I had saved was safely tucked away in an offshore account Mark couldn’t touch.
And none of them realized that, hidden in the front pocket of my carry-on, a tiny wireless camera had been recording every single word since I walked through the front door…
PART 2: THE REVERSE PERSPECTIVE
CHAPTER 1: THE FOUR-MILLION-DOLLAR COVENANT
The air inside that upstairs room felt like an open grave.
It smelled of urine-soaked polyester, floor wax, and the moldering drywall of a southern summer.
But through the smell of my mother’s slow starvation, the sharp, acidic sting of Mark’s cheap cedar cologne was the thing that made my gorge rise.
Downstairs, the zipper on my hard-shell carry-on rasped open with a violent, tearing screech, followed by the muffled thud of shoes, rolled socks, and travel toiletries being dumped onto the polished oak foyer floorboards:
*THUD-CLATTER.*
“Mark!”
Heather shrieked again, her voice echoing up the stairwell with shrill, unhinged frustration.
“There’s nothing in here except underwear and Arabic shampoo!
