Ransom blew up the yacht, set it aflame, as he did my car, the Bonzi tree Cali told me about, Scott’s grapevines...

“He’s unstable, of course you would be too if you were the reason your sister was dead, but alive.”

A chill runs through me, and I pale, my eyes snapping to his.

He squints, and a low chuckle leaves him. “Oh, you didn’t know?” He walks closer, fully entertaining himself, and with every step he takes, my lungs shrivel a little more. “Why do you think he doesn’t drive?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t drink?”

“Stop.”

“It’s because he climbed behind the wheel with his precious baby sister in the passenger seat.”

My palm flattens on my stomach. “I said stop.”

“And when he took a corner, he took it wide. Flew right over the center median. Right into oncoming traffic.”

Oh my god, this is how it happened.

She wasn’t hit by a drunk driver; she was in the car with one.

But it wasn’t Ransom, I know this, because Ransom would never leave his sister after a moment like that, and he was with Amy just after it happened.

It was Anthony.

Anthony wrecked with his little sister in the car and found a way to get Ransom to take the blame.

No wonder Sienna doesn’t care or try to speak to him.

I’m sure she’s angry, but more than that, it must be painful to be the one ignored, to be the one someone else turned their back on as if you’re the one at fault.

Anthony claps his hands together, and I jump, snapping out of my thoughts.

He chuckles, shakes his head and begins to walk away, but the rev of an engine reaches our ears.

It grows loud, and then louder, and Anthony’s face falls in an instant.

He slams his glass down and runs across the room.

I spin, following, forced to jog to keep up.

He throws the double doors open and flies out onto the front balcony, grips the railing, and screams, “What the fuck are you doing?!”

I reach the edge, my hands flying to my mouth when I spot Beretta and Arsen at the end of the driveway, Ransom standing just outside the open door of my Camaro.

My toes bend in my heels, and I stop breathing.

Ransom’s hood is up, nothing but a slight glow coming from him, his eyes, the night a bit too bright to make them pop, but then behind us, the lights go out.

Anthony growls. “Don’t play your fucking games with me.”

Ransom’s foot slips inside the car, and again, he revs the engine.

“Ransom!” Anthony screams.

And then Ransom climbs behind the wheel.

He hits the gas to the floor, the wheels spinning and smoking, and then the house rattles as the convertible crashes through the glass garage.