Just as I was about to leave for my sister’s wedding at my vacation home, my lawyer called with one warning: “Don’t go until you watch the security footage I just sent.”

Claire began to sob—not the sob of someone who was sorry, but the sob of someone who had been caught. Ryan tried to argue with the deputies, but they were unimpressed.

I didn’t stay to watch them pack. I walked out to the dock and sat on the bench Dad had built years ago. I watched the sun begin to set over the water.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Claire.

How could you do this to your only sister? It’s just a house.

I didn’t reply. I just blocked her number.

By 8:30 p.m., the driveway was empty. The white peonies were wilting on the grass where the florists had dropped them. The house was quiet, the way a sanctuary should be.

I went inside, poured a glass of the expensive bourbon Ryan had tucked away in my cabinet, and called Daniel.

“Is it done?” he asked.

“It’s done,” I said. “Send the PI’s footage to the rest of the family. I want them to hear the ‘narrative’ from the source before Ryan starts his PR campaign.”

I hung up and looked out at the lake. It was a beautiful weekend for a wedding. It was an even better weekend for a clean slate.