Grant Holloway saw a dead woman through the window of a baby store. At least, she was supposed to be dead.

Grant didn’t move. He kept his hands visible, palms open, his eyes locked on Jolene.

"Jolene," he said softly.

"Don't," she snapped, her knuckles whitening around the silver key. "Don't use that tone. That calm, reasonable voice. I know what it means."

"It means I'm not here to hurt you," Grant said.

Vance stepped away from the wall, his chest heaving. "Jolene, go back in the room. Let me handle him."

Jolene didn’t even glance at Vance. Her eyes remained fixed on Grant. "Handle him? You couldn't handle him on your best day, Vance. And I'm done being handled by either of you."

Grant watched her carefully. The fatigue under her eyes. The defensive posture. She was terrified, but she was hiding it behind a wall of sheer will.

"What does the key go to?" Grant asked.

"A safety deposit box in downtown Savannah," Jolene said, her breathing shallow. "Inside is a ledger. Your father's private ledger. The one everyone in your family has been bleeding each other to find."

Grant felt a cold stillness settle in his chest. His father’s ledger. The mythological black book that supposedly contained the true financial architecture of the Holloway Organization—off-shore accounts, black-market handshakes, and enough leverage to imprison the entire board of directors.

"How do you have that?" Grant asked.

"Because your father gave it to mine," Jolene said.

A heavy silence dropped over the room. Jolene’s father had been an accountant. A quiet, invisible man who had died of a sudden heart attack three years ago.

"Desmond didn't just want me gone because of the baby," Jolene continued, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. "He came to me five months ago. He said he knew about the ledger. He offered me two million dollars to walk away and hand it over. When I refused, he told me I wouldn't survive the week."

Vance stepped forward, playing the hero again. "That's when I stepped in. I found her. I faked the hospital records. I brought her here to protect her."

"Protect me?" Jolene finally looked at Vance, and the absolute disgust in her eyes made Grant’s stomach tighten. "You locked me in."

Vance flushed. "For your own safety! You were a target!"

"You took my phone. You took my credit cards. You put a padlock on the outside of the door every time you left," Jolene said, her voice rising with sudden, fierce anger. "You didn't save me, Vance. You just stole me from Desmond so you could use the ledger and the baby to take over the company yourself."

Grant slowly turned his head to look at his brother.

The panic returned to Vance’s eyes. "Grant, she’s emotional. She doesn't understand the corporate stakes—"

Grant hit him.

It wasn't a calculated strike. It was a raw, devastating backhand that sent Vance crashing over the kitchen island, scattering pots and pans onto the floor. Vance hit the tiles hard and stayed down, groaning, a line of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth.

Grant didn’t look at him. He turned back to Jolene.

"Put the key away," Grant said gently. "We're leaving."

Jolene backed up a step. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You're a Holloway. You're exactly like them."

"I am nothing like them," Grant said, his voice dropping an octave. "And right now, you are standing in an unsecured room with a broken window. If I found you, Desmond’s men aren't far behind. We are leaving."

He stepped forward. Jolene flinched, but she didn’t run.

Grant walked past her to the bedroom, grabbed her small duffel bag from the bed, and walked back out. He threw Vance’s heavy coat over Jolene’s shoulders to keep her warm against the night air.

As he adjusted the collar of Vance’s coat around her, Grant felt something stiff inside the interior breast pocket.

His fingers brushed against heavy cardstock.

Without thinking, Grant pulled it out.

It was a faded, yellowed train ticket. Stamped: Savannah to Richmond. October 14th.

Grant’s blood turned to ice.

He stared at the ticket. He had seen this exact ticket before. Or rather, a perfect match to it. The matching stub had been found in his father’s pocket on the night he was murdered in a downtown alley.