Magnus points to the sky, darkened by thick clouds of smoke and flying ash. “Gonna storm in a few hours. Hopefully, there’s still something left to be saved by the time it starts.”

Forty-Four

Lincoln

“Aren’t we stopping at your house?” Whitney asks as we fly toward the estate.

“Why?”

“Your stuff!”

I reach out and squeeze her hand. “It’s wood, glass, and rock. The only thing that truly matters is right here by my side.”

“Ain’t that sweet.” Magnus’s voice comes over the headset, reminding me that the old man can hear everything we say.

“Hopefully, it doesn’t get this far,” Whitney says, and I know we’re all hoping the same thing. But I was telling the truth. As long as I have her, everything else can be replaced.

When we reach the estate, instead of seeing the driveway full of cars lined up and the staff scurrying around, loading them with valuables and antiques, there’s no movement.

“What the hell?”

The chopper lands on the helipad, and I’m on the ground as quickly as Whitney was at Magnus’s place.

“Stay here,” I yell to them as I run toward the house and the rotors begin to slow.

When I open the front door, I expect complete chaos inside, but instead there’s . . . eerie silence. Until I hear Commodore’s voice boom from the library.

“Over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged, old man.”

The second voice is unmistakable. My brother.

What the hell is going on?

I creep toward the door to the library, and with every step, foreboding curls around my spine.

“Sign it, or I’ll make sure this house burns down around you. Did you know they say burning alive is the worst pain a human can suffer?”

What the fuck?

I reach the door, and a peek inside reveals Harrison standing over Commodore, a pistol trained on my grandfather and a stack of documents in front of him.

“You shot my fucking dog. You really think I’m going to sign a goddamn thing? If you had a brain in your head, you’d already realize I have exactly one answer for you. Go fuck yourself, boy.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, old man. I’ve had enough of your lectures. Fucking years of them. I was never good enough. Smart enough. Fast enough. Nothing was ever fucking enough for you! Now, pick up the fucking pen and sign your goddamn name on that line, or I swear to Christ I’ll make sure you die as painfully as you deserve.”

Commodore leans back in his chair and crosses his good arm over his sling. “If you’d shown even a fraction of this much conviction or devotion to something that mattered, we probably wouldn’t be in this position.”

“I told you to shut the fuck up and sign it!”

Harrison’s face contorts with rage, mottled and red. His hair sticks up in different directions like he’s run his hands through it over and over, probably as he cursed our grandfather—while holding a gun on him.