Preston turned to Jace with disbelief and gratitude.
“Tell me more about the man you saw,” Preston said.
Jace nodded.
“She was wearing a dark coat. She had a scar near her eyebrow. He pushed her into a silver van. I memorized the license plate number. I do that to stay alive.”
Preston held his breath.
—What was the number?
Jace repeated it clearly.
Preston felt the air leave his lungs. He knew that number. It belonged to Morton Keene. His lifelong business partner. His advisor. The man who had insisted the funeral be done quickly to avoid media attention.
Betrayal narrowed his vision.
“He did it to maintain control of my stake,” Preston muttered. “He wanted me destroyed.”
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