PROLOGUE
THIRTY-THREE YEARS AGO
Washington, DC
She couldn’t speed up, and she couldn’t slow down. The day’s snowfall made the roads a hazardous mess, but the vehicles behind her were still pressing her to move faster. She wished they’d pass her and get on with their harried lives, but the oncoming traffic was a solid wall.
Her tires lost their grip on a patch of ice, and the car careened toward the sidewalk. Grabbing the wheel, she overcorrected. The car swerved back, taking her over the line.
She was staring into the headlights of a pickup.
Oh shit!
She turned the wheel, veering back into her lane just in time.
“How are you doing back there, Ryan?” She glanced over her shoulder at her five-year-old in the backseat.
He seemed oblivious to their near miss. He was caught up waging a war with his toy soldiers, batting them against each other as if they were in hand-to-hand combat. Though every now and then, he’d call out,pew-pew.
Despite only taking her eyes off the road for less than a second, the traffic around her seemed to have swelled more, boxing her in. Her stomach clenched as she prayed she could just slow down, or better yet, pull over. But before she could do anything, the vehicle behind her shot up on her left side. It was such a small opening in which to pass.
Where does he think he’s going?
She lost control of her car, skidding toward the crosswalk. She pumped the brakes, but it didn’t do any good.
She was left to watch in horror as the pole on the side of the road came closer and closer until…
“Ryan, hold—” she screamed, just seconds before impact.
The airbags deployed and exploded against her chest.
All went dark.
ONE
PRESENT DAY, WEDNESDAY, JULY 15, 9:30 AM
Washington, DC
He pulled up to the wrought-iron security gates and stopped. The standalone luxury estate that loomed behind them was rare to find in DC proper due to smaller lots and zoning but the people who called it home were among the top point-one percent. They even had a staffed gatehouse. What was it like to be these people, to live like them? Who needed to be surrounded by such opulence? And how could they sleep at night when there was so much poverty in the world?
“How can I help you?” The man inside the gatehouse leaned out, and his gaze danced over him, sizing him up.
“Hello, yes, sorry to disturb your day.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
It rankled that this man had zero patience for small talk, but he mustered a charming smile. “No, I do not, but?—”
“Then I need to ask that you turn around.”
“I can’t do that. Edward Hanson would not be happy to hear later that you turned me away.”
“Really? And why is that?”
“Name’s Joe Buckley, Walton Crane.” He produced a card showing the law firm’s logo.
The guard took it, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scrutinized the card. Looking up, he said, “The name on here is Austin Crane.”
