By eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning, the storm clouds hung heavy over Mercer Island, casting dark shadows across the grand manicured grounds of the Hayes family manor. Inside the vaulted formal parlor, beneath the oil portraits of timber barons and civic dignitaries, the atmosphere was thick with suffocating tension. Gwen Hayes sat on an antique silk damask settee, her posture stiff as marble, her knuckles white where she gripped a…
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