My husband and my sister laughed while my daughter Holly was dying in a hospital bed. Then he smirked and said, “Holly had a good run. We need that money for my son with your sister.” I slapped him across the face and made one phone call that destroyed them both.

I thought I had seen the last of him. But rats always find a way to crawl out of the sewer.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Lily was asleep, and I had gone down to the hospital cafeteria to get a coffee. As I walked out into the crisp Seattle air to clear my head, a hand violently grabbed my arm, yanking me into the alcove near the parking garage.

It was Marcus. He looked horrific. His expensive haircut was grown out and greasy, his clothes wrinkled and smelling of cheap liquor. He was out on bail, awaiting his transfer to prison, and he had used his last ounce of freedom to track me down.

“You ruined my life!” he hissed, pinning me against the brick wall.

I didn't scream. I just looked at him with utter disgust. “You did that all by yourself, Marcus.”

“I need cash, Elena. I need it right now to run. If you don't call Vance and get me a hundred grand, I swear to God I’ll go upstairs to that room and—”

He never finished the sentence.

Before he could blink, two massive security guards—men Arthur had discreetly hired to watch over us in Seattle—slammed Marcus into the concrete. He howled in pain as his arm was twisted behind his back.