"Don't make me say it again—give me the password!" Andre's voice snapped, the knife flashing in his hand. "Andre, please," Grace said, wide-eyed and soft, as if softness could change his grip. "Lillian, tell him. It's only numbers." "Lillian, we told you—" Andre barked. He took a step forward. The butcher's blade caught the kitchen light and cut a silver line through the air. "I don't have it," Lillian said. Her voice was small and sharp. "I don't—" "Don't lie to me," Andre snapped. "Not tonight." "Estelle—call her," Grace whispered, more to herself than to anyone. Her fingers trembled over the counter. A phone somewhere was ringing; Lillian heard the faint ring through the scrape of the fridge motor. "Call who?" Andre asked. He sounded impatient, like he'd already decided the night's shape. "Estelle," Grace said. "She... she promised—she knows where the papers are." Lillian felt the thing in her chest gather tight, then float. "I can find it," she said. "Let me—" "Stop," Andre said. "No more stalling." There was a muffled voice on the line. Estelle: crisp, practiced. "Is everything okay?" she asked like someone asking if milk was spoiled. Lillian heard Estelle's laugh in the background, the clink of a wineglass. "Estelle," Grace said, relief forcing her smile. "We need—" "Password," Andre said. "One call. She gives it. We leave." "Estelle," Lillian whispered. She kept her hands where they were, palms flat on