I married a lonely elderly woman for her money and a roof over my head. But after her funeral, her attorney gave me a box and said, “She told me this is what you truly wanted.”

I burst out of the law firm and hit the crowded Seattle pavement running.

The cold rain stung my face as I wove through the sea of umbrellas. My chest heaved. Eleanor—sweet, soft-spoken, gardening Eleanor—was a thief? She had robbed the Russian mob?

I ducked into a narrow alleyway, pressing my back against the damp brick wall. I pulled out the burner phone. It was still ringing.

I hit the accept button and held it to my ear, my breathing ragged.

"Julian," a thick, heavily accented voice purred through the speaker. "We are so sorry for your loss. Eleanor was a remarkable woman. But she took something of ours. And Richard tells us you have the key."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I lied, my voice cracking. "I was just her husband!"

"A husband who married a seventy-year-old woman for love?" The man laughed, a dry, cruel sound. "We know exactly what you are, Julian. A parasite. Bring the key to the shipyards at Pier 44 tonight. Or we will start mailing you pieces of your estranged sister."

The line went dead.

My stomach plummeted. My sister, Sarah. We hadn't spoken in five years, not since my debts ruined our relationship. How did they know about her?

I needed a car. I needed to get to First Continental. I sprinted toward the parking garage where I had left my beat-up sedan, but as I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks.