CHAPTER 1: THE ASHES OF EMILY
The freezing, black water of the Atlantic didn't break Emily; it woke her up.
As the yachtâs tail lights faded into the storm, Daniel and Michaelâs laughter seemed to echo in the thunder. They thought they had drowned a phobic housewife. They didnât know they had just released a predator.
Emily surfaced, coughing up salt water, her lungs screaming. The waves were brutal, but her two years of secret, grueling training kicked in. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. She didnât fight the current; she rode it. For three agonizing hours, fueled by pure, unadulterated hatred, she swam until her fingers scraped against the jagged rocks of a secluded cove near the old port.
She collapsed onto the sand, shivering violently, but her mind was burning. They wanted her dead? Fine. Emily the loving wife was dead.
The next morning, Daniel and Michael put on a masterclass in grieving. They called the police, weeping premium crocodile tears. "A tragic accident," Daniel sobbed to the cameras. "The storm... she slipped. She couldnât swim."
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While the brothers were busy celebrating their newfound freedom and preparing their next illegal human smuggling shipment at the old warehouse, Emily was watching from the shadows of a cheap motel. She changed her hair, emptied a secret offshore account they knew nothing about, and began her hunt.
But she wasn't going to the police. The police could be bought. She wanted total psychological ruin.
