Epilogue

Epilogue


Reynolds

My grandfather was a just and fair judge.

He believed the law was supposed to protect people, not serve the powerful. He never cared about a person's last name, how much money they had, or who they knew. If someone was guilty, he held them accountable. If they were innocent, he fought to make sure they were treated that way.

He didn't deserve to die.

For months, I had told myself that his death was something I couldn't change. That I shouldn't blame myself.

His murder had been investigated. Leads had been followed. Tate and I knew the Twin Blades were responsible, but we didn't have any real evidence. Just a stupid piece of paper.

After I got the call that my grandfather was dead, I made a decision.

I closed the Ryder-Williamson case so no one else would die.

Too many people had already been killed. Too many bodies had been left behind. Every new question seemed to lead to another corpse, another family destroyed, another person willing to pull a trigger to keep the truth buried.

I couldn't justify adding another body to that list.

I kept going back to the night of the senator's birthday party.

Ace's anger toward Hank had been impossible to miss. He had been furious with him, his voice filled with a rage that seemed far deeper than anything I'd understood at the time.

Now I realized why.

Ace had felt betrayed.

And Hank...

I remembered Hank's face. That faint smile. His eyes traveling over the dead bodies as though he were taking inventory.

I just hadn't understood what I was looking at.

Now, I did.

Hank had something to do with this. I didn't know exactly what. I didn't know how far it went.

But if he hadn't been involved, I wanted to hear it from his mouth.

So I began another investigation.

This time, I wasn't going through official channels. And I couldn't let anyone know what I was doing.

Not even Tate.

Especially not Tate.

If she knew I was going to do some digging, she'd try to help. Then someone else would know. And once someone knew, no one I loved would be safe.

I needed answers.

I needed closure.

My first step was Hank.

I started with every property connected to the Wincroft, Williamson, and Ryder families.

It became an obsession.

For months, I dug through land records, old deeds, probate files, tax records, corporate registries, and historical archives. I traced properties that had belonged to the families for generations, following every transfer and every change in ownership.

The families had owned an astonishing amount of property. They were in real estate, so that wasn't surprising. But their holdings were spread across several continents.

Some of it was obvious.

Some weren't.

A Wincroft property might appear under a holding company. A Williamson residence might have been transferred into a trust. A Ryder property could have changed hands through a corporation whose name had nothing to do with the family.

I followed every thread.

I visited the properties within the continental United States, Mexico, and the Caribbean that still existed.

I spoke to neighbors. Caretakers. Former employees. People who remembered the families from decades ago.

But I couldn't find Hank.

Some properties had been sold long before Hank was born. Others had been demolished or redeveloped. A few had become hotels or apartment buildings.

But I kept going.

Hank was somewhere.

Sure, he had money and connections. Access to a family history that stretched back generations. He didn't need a bank account with his name on it. He didn't need a house registered to him.

He only needed a door that someone from his family had once owned.

Eventually, I exhausted every property in the United States. I even checked properties belonging to his parents' wealthy friends and hotels his father frequented when he traveled.

Nothing.

Hank was nowhere to be found.

That was when I decided it was time to go overseas.

A year had passed. I figured that was long enough for him to lower his guard.

To relax.

To stop looking over his shoulder.

To make a mistake.

And if he had people watching me, his goons had probably already told him I was on leave pending a mental health evaluation.

I won't lie. My grandfather's death had taken a toll on me.

I couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep.

And I knew I wouldn't be able to forgive myself until I made the people who killed him pay.

The Wincrofts had been wealthy long before Hank ever inherited a dime. In the nineteenth century, the family had maintained residences throughout Europe.

London. France. Portugal. Germany. Spain.

I studied the old documents on my tablet.

There were properties everywhere.

Some were gone. Some had been sold. Others remained connected to the family through trusts and private companies.

I needed to see them with my own eyes.

I started in London.

Only one property remained in the Wincroft name—a three-story townhouse in an affluent neighborhood. It was owned by a countess and her millionaire husband. His great-grandmother had been a Wincroft, and he had inherited the property from her.

There was no sign of Hank.

From London, I took the train to France.

One of the Wincroft properties there had been converted into a hotel. I checked in, then spent the evening wandering around the City of Lights like an ordinary tourist.

As I stood at the Eiffel Tower, I thought of Hastings.

After my bad breakup with Connie, Hastings was the closest I'd come to having a girlfriend. I felt comfortable around her. She was easy to talk to.

And she was hot.

I smiled to myself. Then I looked back at the city below.

I wasn't there for sightseeing. I wasn't there to reminisce.

I was there to find Hank.

In the morning, I discovered that the other property had been converted into a commercial space filled with restaurants and shops. I had breakfast there and discovered the beauty of a true café au lait and a croissant au beurre.

It was magnifique.

From Paris, I had to make a coin toss between Germany and Spain. Paris was practically halfway between them.

Germany won.

I took another high-speed train to Frankfurt.

Most of the remaining properties there were warehouses used for logistics. At that point, I was getting frustrated. There was practically nothing here.

I was beginning to think I should have flown to Asia instead.

I checked the remaining properties in Spain and Portugal.

There were two in Lisbon, Portugal, three in Madrid, Spain, and one large estate in Málaga, along the Costa del Sol—the birthplace of Pablo Picasso.

The original records dated back to 1899, shortly after the United States and Spain signed the Treaty of Paris.

The property had changed hands several times over the years, but the connections to the Wincroft family had never completely disappeared.

I booked a flight.

Three days later, I was sitting at a small café across from the estate.

The Mediterranean air was warm, and the afternoon streets were alive with people. Families filled the nearby restaurants. Tourists wandered beneath the whitewashed buildings. Somewhere behind me, someone was laughing loudly as a football match played on a television.

A waiter named Jose brought my sangria and placed it on the table.

“You like it?” he asked.

I took a sip and closed my eyes. “It's good.”

“First time here?”

“In Málaga, yes.”

He smiled. “Then you picked a good place.”

I nodded toward the estate across the road. “What about that place?”

He turned to look.

“The old villa?”

“That's the one.”

“You interested in buying it?”

I laughed. “Is it for sale?”

“No, Señor,” he said. “But they do rent it out sometimes. Unfortunately, there is already someone living there. A young couple. Married. No children yet.”

He paused, thinking.

“Enrique and Camila Guillermez.”

The name caught my attention.

Enrique. Spanish for Henry.

Before I could ask anything else, Jose pointed toward a sleek black Mercedes-Benz turning toward the massive gates.

“Ah, there they are right now.”

I followed the car with my eyes.

The Mercedes stopped near the entrance of the villa, and two blondes stepped out. They were too far away for me to make out their faces. I watched as they disappeared from view behind the massive gates.

“They seem well-off. How long have they been living here?” I asked.

“About a year, I think.”

I finished my glass and reached into my pocket for some cash.

“Jose, a pitcher of sangria and a platter of your best tapas and chorizo, por favor.”

I handed him two €50 notes.

“The rest you can keep.”

His eyebrows rose.

I smiled.

“I plan to stay a while.”