I scrambled out of the basket, dragged Anthony out, and laid him flat on the ground. His forehead was still bleeding, but the color of the blood was no longer bright red. It had turned dark red, almost black.

Two paramedics finally reached us. The lead paramedic crouched down and felt for a pulse at Anthony's carotid artery.

Then he looked up at me and slowly shook his head. "His pupils are dilated. This is sudden cardiac death. I'm sorry. He's gone."

My hands were still frozen in the compression position, suspended mid-air. It felt as if all the sounds around me had suddenly vanished. Then I heard a sound that felt both distant and close, rising from my own throat.

I held Anthony's body as it slowly grew cold and let out a wail.

Anisa stood about ten feet away, covering her nose as she stepped back. "He's dead, so what? Why are you screaming like that? You sound like a maniac. This is such bad luck."

When Anisa saw that Anthony was indeed dead, she showed no fear at all. Instead, her expression was full of contempt and disgust.

She started bossing the nearby workers around. "This old man died on our construction site just to extort us and bring us bad luck.

"You guys, go grab the filthiest tarp you can find on this site and cover up this old man. I don't want to look at him. Then call a tow truck and get him taken to the crematorium to be burned right away."

The workers glanced at one another, and none of them dared to move. Anisa couldn't be bothered to spare me another glance and turned away to touch up her lipstick.

20 minutes later, a black Maybach pulled up at the entrance of the construction site. Conner stepped out of the vehicle. He wore a crisp suit and held a blue Tiffany paper bag.

Anisa jogged over and threw herself into his arms. "Mr. Randall, you're finally here. You have no idea what happened. Your wife brought her broke old dad to the site to cause trouble.

"When he couldn't squeeze any money out of us, he lay on the ground and pretended to be dead just to scare me. My heart nearly gave out."

Conner looked down and smoothed her wind-tousled hair. Then he looked toward me, or rather at the shape covered by a dirty tarp beside my feet.

He walked over, stood beside the tarp, and glanced down. The tarp didn't fully cover the body, and one hand stuck out. A watch rested on that wrist. It was from the Patek Philippe Nautilus series, and only 50 pieces were ever produced worldwide.

Yet Conner didn't notice the watch. He stepped directly onto that exposed hand.

He looked down at me, his gaze cold. "Listen carefully. Not only are you useless, but your dad is also a scheming old fraud. Sign the divorce agreement and get out right now. Don't dirty my property with your disgusting father."

I stopped crying and lifted my head, staring at his foot on Anthony's hand. I spoke slowly and deliberately. "You're stepping on your own father."

Conner froze for a moment. Then he burst out laughing as if he had just heard the most ridiculous joke in the world. "Sylvia Bradford, are you out of your mind? Or has grief completely fried your brain?

"My dad is doing just fine at a top-tier care facility in Eurena. Does a country bumpkin like your dad even deserve to pose as my dad?"

Before he could finish speaking, the roar of engines echoed in the distance. It wasn't just one car that arrived, but more than a dozen. A row of black Hummers rolled in like a steel serpent along the road, ramming through the dump trucks blocking the entrance.

The security guards tried to stop them, but the man in black at the front flashed a badge. At a glance, the guards' knees buckled.

The convoy stopped in a semicircle at the center of the construction site. The door of the vehicle in the middle swung open, and a middle-aged man in a gray suit scrambled out in panic.

I recognized him. He was the Randall family's head butler, Martin Duffy.

Martin ran to the tarp and dropped to his knees with a thud. With trembling hands, he yanked away the filthy cover, revealing Anthony's face, which remained majestic and familiar despite being covered in blood.

"Mr. Randall, look. This is Mr. Randall Senior," Martin said.

Conner's laughter stopped abruptly. He stared at the face of the man he had looked up to for 30 years. The Tiffany bag slipped from his grip and hit the ground with a dull thud. A diamond necklace slid out of the box and landed in the dust.

His knees began to shake, and then he collapsed to the ground.