"Pack your things. Get out before we're all photographed." the butler snapped as the mansion gates closed.
"Why?" Laure grabbed the edge of his sleeve. She kept her voice steady and sharp. "Tell me why."
"Orders from the board," he said. "They said no one stays to be framed."
He shoved a folded newspaper into her hands. His fingers were steady. His face was not.
Laure unfolded the paper with quick fingers. The front page punched the morning light.
"CAR CRASH; FAMILY DEAD; DRUNK DRIVER CONFESSED," she read aloud. Her voice had no room for anything else.
"That's not—" she started.
"There's a press van on the lane," the butler said. "Get to the car. Now."
"Who—who's saying this?" Laure's eyes moved over the headline. Below it, a photo: a twisted wreck on a rain-slick road, a blurred face, tape and flashing lights. A caption line squinted at the bottom: "Boyd heir in frame."
Laure looked up. "Boyd?"
The butler's jaw tightened. "You need to go."
A shout came from the driveway. Flashbulbs popped in quick, hungry bursts.
"Miss Farrell! Miss Farrell, a word!"
Reporters clustered at the edge of the iron gates. Their phones extended like claws. A camera lens blocked part of Laure's view.
"Who told you to leave?" a woman called.
"Any comment on the victims?" someone else shouted.
Laure stepped forward. Her knees felt suddenly older. Her hands gripped the newspaper until the creases bit her palms
