Amber had just called him again. He’d thought his troubles were over when Ferringham went back to London with his tail between his legs, but apparently the Morgan girl was sniffing around again. He thought that it was only a matter of time before Ferringham got back in the mix again. They both had to be dealt with.

Tim took a deep swig of vodka and scratched his forehead with the butt of the gun.

The kitchen door opened, and a figure, illuminated by the moonlight, came in. Rachel. She turned on the light and jumped when she saw Tim. “Jesus.”

“Where have you been?” Tim said.

“I went for a walk,” Rachel said, still recovering.

“You go on a lot of walks these days,” Tim slurred.

Rachel’s eyes flitted to the gun in his hand. “How much have you drunk, Tim? You shouldn’t have a gun in your condition.”

Tim ignored her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Just put the gun down, Tim.”

Far from what she wanted, he pointed the gun at her. “I want to ask you a question.”

Rachel froze. “What?” she shrieked.

“It was you, right?” he said. “It was you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Answer me,” Tim shouted. The noise from the other room stopped. There was a shuffling and Tim knew that soon they would have an audience. He didn’t care.

“You’re drunk. And you’re emotional,” Rachel was saying. But she might as well have been talking a different language. Because all Tim heard were lies.

“Tim.” Edmund’s voice. Then Pru’s. And Robert’s. All asking after him.

Tim cocked the gun—click. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” Rachel shrieked. “Yes, it was me.”

“It was all of us,” Edmund said, stepping into Tim’s sight line. “This has gone too far, Tim.”

“Who sent the map?” Tim said.

“Me,” Pru said. “One of the people I was on the engineering and construction course with was interning in construction at the Rivers Trust. Found the opening. Put it on Facebook.”

“You sent it to James Sunderland,” Tim said. “Why?”

“Because this needs to be over, Tim,” Robert said.

Now they were all in front of him. All in the path of the gun.

“You ungrateful pieces of shit,” Tim said. “Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve become, has been for all of you.”

“No, Tim,” Rachel said, stepping forward from the others. “What you’ve become? That was all for you.”

Tim thrust the gun forward, put his finger on the trigger, pressed it halfway. Rachel tensed but said nothing. He was going to do it, blow the bitch away. But then a single tear rolled down Rachel’s cheek. And somewhere, in his vodka-addled mind, he forced himself to stop.

She was his sister. His twin sister. He couldn’t do it.

“Get in the basement,” Tim said.

The four in front of him faltered. “What?” Rachel said.