The mention of Judge Pendelton’s name shattered Catherine Sterling’s brittle facade. Two winters ago, Pendelton had been the very magistrate who arrived at Raven Hill during a blizzard to confess his past compliance under Patricia's coercive regime. He had spent the last two years systematically scouring the county court records of every tainted ruling, illegal easement, and falsified deed Patricia had ever touched.

Catherine stood up abruptly, gathering her leather portfolio. "This conversation is over, Mrs. Cain."

"It's only beginning," I replied, staying seated. "You have until noon tomorrow to withdraw the filing from the county clerk’s registry. If that encumbrance is not formally dissolved by twelve o'clock, Daniel and I won't just challenge the lien. Marcus will deliver the digital records of your Zurich shell corporation to the federal prosecutor's office in Boston. Wire fraud, interstate conspiracy, and the unauthorized use of a deceased magistrate's signature seal carry a minimum mandatory sentence of fifteen years."

She froze, staring down at me. For a moment, the ghost of Patricia Hayes flickered in her eyes—the same haughty, cold arrogance that had believed wealth could rewrite morality.

"You think you've won," Catherine whispered, her fingers digging into the strap of her bag. "You think Patricia was the only person who hated you for taking that house. You have no idea whose money is sitting in that Swiss account, Victoria. Patricia was just the face. The people behind her have roots in this state that run deeper than the Cains."

"Then tell them to come into the light," I said, meeting her gaze without flinching. "Because we don't hide in the dark anymore."

She turned on her heel and strode briskly toward the elevators, her footsteps echoing sharply across the mezzanine floor.

"Victoria," Marcus’s voice sounded in my earpiece. "I followed her mobile ping as soon as she stood up. She’s placing an encrypted call right now. Routed through a local cell tower downtown."

"Can you trace the recipient?" I asked, rising from the table and heading toward the stairs.

"Already on it," Marcus said. "The receiver isn't downtown. The call is pinging a landline at the Ashport Yacht Club."

I stopped at the top of the grand marble staircase. The Ashport Yacht Club was the private sanctuary of the town’s oldest founding families—the harbor elite who had watched Patricia’s fall from a safe, quiet distance, never lifting a finger to save her, but never accepting the new order Daniel and I had built.

"Daniel is waiting outside," Marcus said. "We have the address."

I tightened the collar of my wool coat against the winter chill and descended the stairs. "Tell Daniel to bring the original foundation charter. We’re going to settle this where it began."