floor of her room. She slid a locked, worn leather box from under her bed. The k

h. But her eyes, even in her joy, held a familiar watchfulness. Inside the box, along with the photo, was the original paperwork for a trust. It was the only thing her mother ha

ing her a "game." It involved memorizing the license plates of every car on their street. Another game was

games. They

his box, her hands tight on Corey's small shoulders. "Never, ever trust

his very house. But Corey remembered other things. The sound of a strange car

l reports. They were a mess. Key details were redacted, and the timeline of events had been sloppily altered. The

t had lived in her gut for years. I

t was all part of the plan. The Fitzgeralds were at the center

e box, the warmth in her eyes replaced by

am. "I need a car. I want to visit m

e hand. "Fine. Whatever. Just don't be late for the final dress fi

o chaperone. She headed east, toward the Hamptons, where a stretch of

e glittering Atlantic. Corey didn't notice. Her mi

nce was flanked by two men in immaculate black suits, earpieces discree

cemetery is closed for

Corinna Emerson," Corey said calm

eated, his face an impassive mask. "It's a

jolt. Fitzgerald? The coinci

tone walls topped with security cameras.

, defeated sigh.

pearing to give up. The guards relaxed, dismi

r rearview mirror. She waited. Then, she drove to the far end of the parki

cript backpack. She quickly swapped her flats fo

at the wall. It was at

smile touc

operations, a twelve-foot wall wa

ion to enter. She was just de