The priest’s words blurred into the sound of rain hitting stone. I knelt before Dad’s grave, fingers brushing the cold engraving, when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. \n\n‘He didn’t die in an accident, Cathy. Damien paid the driver to swerve.’ \n\nI froze. The voice—soft, urgent—belonged to Vincent, Dad’s former bodyguard. ‘And last week? The Hamptons trip? He wasn’t working late. He was with Lila Chen. In your bed.’ \n\nMy breath stopped. Around me, mourners whispered prayers. Smiled fake smiles. No one saw the knife sliding into my ribs. \n\nNow, standing in the downpour, I whisper into the phone, ‘What do I do?’ \n\nVincent’s reply is calm. Deadly. ‘You want justice? Or do you want revenge?’ \n\nThe question hangs like thunder. One path leads to the police. The other—to fire.