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

Grant stared down the barrel of his brother’s gun.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t plead. He didn’t reach for his own weapon.

Instead, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out the small, heavy silver key Jolene had given him. He held it up, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. The harsh fluorescent hospital lights caught the metal, making it gleam.

Vance’s eyes instantly locked onto it.

"You want the ledger," Grant said, his voice as calm as still water. "You want the proof of what you did. The proof that clears Desmond and hangs you."

"Toss it," Vance ordered, his hand trembling slightly. "Toss it on the floor."

"If I toss it, you shoot me," Grant replied. "But if you shoot me while I'm holding it, it drops into this grated floor drain." Grant shifted his foot slightly, revealing the metal grate of a drainage vent directly beneath his hand. "Good luck fishing it out of the city sewer system before the cops arrive."

Vance hesitated. His greed warred with his panic.

"I’ll give it to you," Grant offered smoothly. "Hand-to-hand. You take the key, you walk out that door, and you disappear. You go to Boston. You go to Europe. I don't care. But you never come back."

"Don't do it, Grant," Desmond wheezed from the floor. "He'll never stop."

"Shut up, old man!" Vance snapped, but his gun wavered, lowering just a fraction toward Grant’s hand.

That fraction was all Grant needed.

Grant didn’t toss the key. He threw it—hard and fast, directly into Vance’s face.

Vance flinched instinctively, raising his free hand to catch it.

In that microsecond, Grant closed the distance.

He didn't draw his gun. He used his hands. Grant slapped the cylinder of the revolver, jamming his thumb between the hammer and the firing pin just as Vance pulled the trigger.

The hammer slammed down onto Grant’s flesh, tearing the skin, but it didn't strike the bullet. The gun didn't fire.

Vance gasped in shock.

Grant twisted the weapon violently, snapping Vance’s wrist with a sickening crack. Vance screamed, dropping the gun.

Before Vance could recover, Grant grabbed him by the throat, spun him around, and slammed him face-first into the concrete wall of the corridor.

Vance crumpled to the floor, weeping, clutching his broken wrist.

"You were never a Holloway," Grant stood over him, his bleeding hand hanging at his side. "A Holloway protects his family. You only ever protected yourself."

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing rapidly closer. The hospital staff had finally called the police.

Grant kicked the revolver away down the hall. He looked down at Vance, a pathetic, broken man crying on the linoleum. The urge to kill him was gone. He felt only pity.

Grant turned away and knelt beside Desmond. The older man was pale, his breathing labored, but a faint, proud smile touched his lips.

"You handled it," Desmond whispered.

"I handled it," Grant confirmed, taking off his jacket and pressing it against Desmond’s bleeding shoulder.

Desmond reached into his own pocket with his good hand. His fingers trembled as he pulled out a small object and pressed it into Grant’s palm.

Grant opened his hand.

It was a small, beautifully carved wooden bird. A robin.

Grant recognized it instantly. His father used to carve them on the porch when Grant was a child. He hadn't seen one in twenty years.

"He made that the night you were born," Desmond coughed, his eyes heavy. "He told me... to give it to you when you had a son of your own. He wanted you to know... that the empire doesn't matter. The money doesn't matter. Only the family."

Tears stung Grant’s eyes. He closed his fist around the wooden bird. "Hold on, Uncle Desmond. The doctors are coming."

The stairwell doors burst open, and a swarm of armed police officers flooded the hallway, followed by paramedics. They immediately swarmed Vance, pulling him to his feet and slapping cuffs on him. Another team rushed to Desmond, lifting him onto a stretcher and barking medical terms.

As they wheeled Desmond away toward surgery, he looked back at Grant.

"Go to her," Desmond said.

Grant stood alone in the hallway as the chaos receded. His hand was bleeding. His clothes were ruined. He was exhausted down to his bones.