Page 61 of The Rebel Billionaire

In mine, money and breeding were the excuse. Half the time, when William was berating one of us over our behavior, he harped on the Winters name. Like anything we could do would eclipse four scandalous, violent deaths. The family name had been dragged through the mud long before we were old enough to do anydamage.

I'd been young when my parents had died, but I remembered them. Aiden and Jacob had told me stories. My mom and dad hadn't been snobs. They'd loved us for who we were and wanted us to grow up into good people who found love and made happyfamilies.

Not people with the right jobs and the right houses in the right neighborhoods. I knew that William thought he was speaking for our parents when he said things like he did that morning. He waswrong.

I refused to believe that my parents would have been that narrowminded. Lucas had enjoyed poking at William, but he hadn't seemed hurt by William’s unkindness. The idea of someone like William hurting Lucas seemedabsurd.

Lucas was strength and power. Still, he had feelings. I'd listened to him tell me about his brother, about leaving home because the town thought his family was trash. He knew loss, grief, and pain. He deserved better than to be the target ofWilliam'scrap.

I rounded the corner to my block and my nerves prickled. It was still light out. Still early. There were cars on the street, people in their front yards and on theirporches.

It wasn't like the other night. Nothing was going tohappen.

That didn't mean my shoulders weren't tight. I picked up my pace, looking over my shoulder once or twice when I couldn'thelpit.

My house looked exactly the way it was supposed to. Everything was locked up tight. The raw, unstained decking was beautiful on my frontporch.

I skidded to a halt in front of my driveway and looked again. The house appeared untouched. My car was still in the driveway. The gate to the backyard wasclosed.

The mailbox doorhungopen.

I racked my brain for a good reason the mailbox would be open. I hadn't changed my address yet so I shouldn't be getting mail. In fact, the mail was being forwarded to Winters House because I hadn't anticipated movinginyet.

The mailbox had been closed when I left to get dinner and the mail had been delivered to my neighbors earlier thatafternoon.

I slowed my steps as I approached the mailbox. It tilted a little on its wooden post, but that wasn't new. I was planning to replace it at a point. I just hadn't gotten around toityet.

Inside was a square white envelope, the same style you might use for an invitation or thank you note. I reached for it, then snatched myhandback.

It was probably a note from a neighbor, welcoming me to thestreet.

Or someone solicitingbusiness.

It was probablynothing.

But if it was something, I didn't want to touch it and get fingerprints alloverit.

I ran across the yard into the house, turning off the alarm after I sprinted in the door. On the floor next to the mini-fridge, I found what I was looking for—a plastic grocery bag. I'd been saving them to recycle, but now I could use it to protect whatever was in mymailbox.

Thinking that if this was a note from a neighbor, I was going to feel very silly, I left my sandwich on top of the refrigerator and went back out to themailbox.

Wrapping the bag over my hand, I reached in the mailbox and gripped the corner of the envelope, carefully pulling it out. My name was hand-printed on thefront.

CHARLOTTEWINTERS.

The envelope wasn't sealed. Inside was a square note card with beveled edges. It was blank except for a message in block print:I'm watching you. You'll get what you deserve. Rusty streaks of red stained the snowy white card, crossing the black ink like clawmarks.

Something was stuck in the bottom of the envelope, keeping me from pushing the card back inside. Tilting the envelope into the plastic bag, I shook itcarefully.

Out slid a clump of dark auburn hair, bound at the root by a rusty red chunk offlesh.

Myhair.

I remembered the burning pain when it had been torn out of my head two nights before. The spot at my temple wasstillraw.

The attacker had kept my hair. Another rusty streak of red marred the inside of theenvelope.

Myblood.