Rachel’s father appeared in the doorway.

“What happened?”

“Bring the kids inside.”

His expression immediately changed.

“Rachel—”

“Now.”

He didn’t question her.

Rachel locked every door in the farmhouse.

Her mother drew the curtains.

Her father pulled an old floodlight from the garage and turned it on above the driveway.

Rachel called Daniel.

He answered immediately.

“Someone was inside Brandon’s hotel room.”

“What do you mean, someone?”

“I don’t know.”

She repeated the conversation as accurately as she could.

Daniel remained silent for several seconds.

Then he said, “Call the police. Now.”

Rachel did.

The officer who took her report said they would contact Miami authorities and arrange for someone to check the hotel room.

Rachel waited.

Twenty minutes.

Thirty.

Forty-five.

Still nothing.

At 5:06 p.m., her phone buzzed.

A message from Brandon.

I’m okay.

Rachel responded immediately.

Call me.

No response.

Where are Brenda and Paige?

Nothing.

Then another message appeared.

Do not involve police.

Rachel stared at the screen.

Too late.

She typed:

Why?

The answer came five minutes later.

Because the money wasn’t taken from you.

Rachel frowned.

Then another message appeared.

It was taken from them.

Before Rachel could respond, her email chimed.

An anonymous address had sent her a single attachment.

No subject line.

No message.

A spreadsheet.

Rachel hesitated before opening it.

The document contained hundreds of rows.

Vehicle identification numbers.

Purchase prices.