The black sports car cut through the California hills, tires screaming along the curves above the Pacific. He didn’t see the ocean. Didn’t feel the wind. All he heard was his aunt Elaine’s voice blasting through the car speakers.
“She’s dangerous, Ethan,” Elaine said sharply.
“I’m telling you, that woman cannot be trusted.”
“She’s neglecting the boys.”
“And now my mother’s emerald ring is gone.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“Elaine,” he snapped, “are you sure about this?”
“I saw it myself,” she replied without hesitation. “If you don’t come home now, I’ll call the authorities. Or worse—the press.”
That did it.
Ethan slammed the accelerator.
Fear finally settled in his chest, heavy and cold. Fear didn’t look like money or lawsuits. Fear looked like two little boys in wheelchairs. Fear sounded like crying he wasn’t there to hear.
“They’re my sons,” he muttered to himself. “I won’t let anyone hurt them.”
But beneath the anger was something uglier.
Guilt.
Since the accident that killed his wife Marianne, guilt had lived rent-free in his mansion. It followed him into meetings, whispered during contracts, stared at him from every family photo.