I could smell the damp wool of my uniform jacket and the sharp scent of Brandon’s expensive cologne.

“This device has been broadcasting our conversation for the last fifteen minutes,” I said.

Brandon’s hand began to lower, the silver key slipping slightly between his fingers.

“Broadcasting to whom?” he asked, his voice losing its sharp edge.

“A federal task force out of Charlotte,” I said. “They have been sitting in an unmarked van three miles from this property.”

He stared at me, his mouth slightly open.

“You’re lying,” he said.

“They have your confession regarding Melissa Vance,” I said.

“I didn’t kill her,” he stammered, his face turning a pale, sickly shade of grey. “I told you, Ethan did.”

“But you admitted to concealing the crime,” I said. “And you admitted to using that information to extort your mother.”

The phone rang a third time.

The name *M. PRESCOTT* flashed on the console in a steady, aggressive rhythm.

“You’ve ruined yourself, Brandon,” I said.

He took a step toward me, his hands curling into fists.

“Give me that transmitter,” he whispered.

I did not flinch.