“Understood, Colonel,” I said, my voice tight.

“You are being placed on administrative hold pending an investigation,” he said.

I stopped in the middle of the grand foyer, the marble floor cold beneath my feet.

Through the glass front doors, I could see the blue and red lights of a police cruiser turning into the long driveway.

But they were not coming to arrest Brandon.

I hung up the phone and slipped it back into my purse.

The cruiser stopped at the foot of the stone steps, its engine idling with a low, heavy rumble.

Two local deputies got out of the car, their leather duty belts creaking in the damp night air.

Behind me, the soft click of heels on marble echoed down the long hallway.

I turned and saw Margaret Prescott standing at the base of the grand staircase, her hands folded neatly over her skirt.

She did not look angry; she looked satisfied.

“I told you to leave my family alone, Colonel,” she said, her voice dry and even.

The front doors opened, and the cool night air rushed into the warm foyer, carrying the smell of wet pine and exhaust.