He was wearing his camel-hair coat, pacing near a leather sofa.

Samantha sat on the sofa, her hands shaking as she held a porcelain teacup.

Two large designer suitcases sat near the door to the tarmac.

Preston turned when he heard our footsteps.

His face lost its color when he saw me standing next to the federal agents.

“Claire,” Preston said, taking a step forward. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Your flight has been cancelled, Mr. Hayes,” Agent Miller said.

“This is private property,” Preston said, his voice rising. “I am boarding a private charter.”

“You are not boarding anything,” I said.

Samantha stood up, spilling some of her tea onto the white rug.

“Preston, what is happening?” she asked, her voice high and thin. “Who are these people?”

“Keep your mouth shut, Samantha,” Preston snapped, not looking at her.

He kept his eyes on me.

“You think you’ve won some petty game, Claire?” Preston asked.

“This is not a game, Preston,” I said.

I opened the folder and handed the top document to Agent Miller.