The atmosphere in the study shifted from familial tension to cold, calculated business. Dupont knew that his eldest daughter didn't move for sentiment; she moved for assets. Maggie was the head of the Department of Criminal Investigations (DCI), a position she wielded like a scalpel, and her reach was far more surgical than any of Arm's blunt-force tracking teams.
Dupont walked over to a safe hidden behind a mahogany panel, pulling out a set of heavy, silver keys and a deed bound in leather. He laid them on the desk between them.
"You want the estate in Nova Scotia," Dupont stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "The one on the rugged coast with the private cove and the three hundred acres of pine. The 'Glass House' you've been pining for since the day I bought it."
Maggie's eyes sharpened. That house was her obsession—a fortress of solitude and status that her father had always withheld as a carrot for her loyalty.
