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Rushton doesn’t say a word. Just unlocks the truck, tosses a folder onto the passenger seat, and waits.

I get in, closing the door softly—not because I trust him. But because I’m ready to burn down the world that took my sister from me. In that silence, I make a decision.

My war isn’t out here anymore. It ended the day I came home to a draped coffin and a file full of redacted names. My sister’s blood is on someone’s hands—a contract killer known only as the Reaper. No ID. No face. Just a string of dead witnesses and a system too scared or too compromised to go after him.

I’ve hunted ghosts before. This one’s personal.

Rushton is building a team. A unit that answers to no one but the governor, the badge on their chest and the justice they’re willing to chase into the dark—a different kind of Texas Ranger.

And me? I’m not seeking redemption. I want results… revenge. Maybe, this son of a bitch can help me find the Reaper.

And when I do—there won’t be enough mist in all of hell to hide him.

SUTTON

Harris County Civil Courthouse

Houston, Texas

Two Years Ago

The courtroom is ice cold and reeks of mildew and overinflated egos. I sit ramrod straight in my chair, heels crossed at the ankle, one hand resting on the polished mahogany of the table. The other clutches a pen I haven’t used—more of a weapon at this point, something to keep my fingers busy and my rage in check.

Across the aisle, Keith is sweating through his designer button-down like a man caught in a lie with the receipts still warm in his pocket. Small beads drip from his temple and soak into the collar his stylist probably starched this morning. He dabs at his forehead with a crumpled napkin—probably from the courthouse vending machine—and tries to maintain the posture of someone not completely unraveling. Spoiler: he fails.

My soon-to-be-ex-husband, all faux confidence and smug entitlement, sits beside his overpriced attorney with the posture of a man who thinks he’s still in control. His tie is too tight, his tan is too fresh, and the smirk he arrived with is beginning to slide right off his face.

I allow myself one small smile. Just a twitch. Barely legal. It's the expression you make when you've spotted your opponent's bluff and you're holding four aces. Not smug. Not gloating. Just a quiet, deeply satisfying confirmation that the truth—your truth—is finally winning.

"Let’s be clear,” Valerie Tran, my attorney, says, adjusting her glasses as she rises. “Mr. Henley has testified that he has no substantial assets. That he’s been, in his words, ‘financially devastated’ by this divorce.”

Keith nods solemnly, like he’s attending his own funeral—and trying very hard not to blame the casket for being so dramatic about it. It’s a performance, a calculated act of humilitythat’s as transparent as his fake tan. He’s hoping the judge mistakes regret for remorse. I almost feel bad. Almost.

Valerie taps a manila folder with two fingers. "And yet, Your Honor, we’ve traced funds—multiple transfers, shell LLCs, and off-the-books consulting fees—amounting to nearly two million dollars. Money that Mr. Henley moved over the course of the last eight months. Most of which he conveniently forgot to disclose."

I don’t look at Keith. I look at the judge. And the judge looks pissed.

A memory cuts in—sharp and cold.

One Year Earlier – Austin, Texas

I stand in the doorway of Keith's hotel suite, the bottle of champagne slipping in my grip. Room 1903. Surprise visit for our fifth anniversary.

I don’t knock. I managed to convince the front desk clerk that I was Keith's wife and was here to surprise him. Because I was trying to be romantic. Spontaneous.

The woman in his bed isn’t his assistant, but she’s got the same haircut. She’s moaning his name like she paid for the privilege, and I freeze in place—every alarm bell in my forensic brain finally screaming in unison.

Keith looks over his shoulder and keeps pounding into her. He doesn’t even look ashamed. He looks inconvenienced.

“Sutton. I thought you couldn't get away. I wasn't expecting you.”

“I can see that,” I say flatly.

And then I laugh. Because the truth isn’t just that he cheated—it’s that I didn’t see it. Me. The woman who can spot a fraudulent wire transfer in a spreadsheet that hasn’t even finished loading. The one who untangles offshore accounts in her sleep.

I missed this. I trusted him. Never again.

The memory fades.