“Federal agents!” she shouted. “Hands where we can see them!”

The guard in front of me froze.

His hand slowly came out of his jacket, empty and open.

He raised both hands to his shoulders.

The second guard did the same, backing up against the wall.

Two agents stepped forward, grabbing the guards and pushing them face-first against the glass partition of the waiting area.

The plastic zip-ties clicked loudly as their wrists were secured.

I did not wait for the agents to clear the path.

I pushed the heavy door to Emily’s room open and stepped inside.

The room smelled of antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and ozone from the monitors.

Emily lay in the hospital bed, her face pale against the white pillow, her eyes half-open.

Ethan stood by the window, a half-empty glass of water in his right hand.

Margaret Prescott sat in the high-backed armchair in the corner, her designer leather handbag resting on her lap.

“What is the meaning of this?” Margaret asked, her voice sharp and level.

She rose from the chair, her pearl necklace catching the harsh fluorescent light of the ceiling.