As we pulled away from the curb, I looked back at my house.

Daniel was standing in the front window, a small, isolated figure behind the glass.

Beside him, our daughter’s empty stroller sat on the porch.

I turned my back on the house and looked straight ahead.

The digital clock on the SUV’s dashboard glowed green, ticking down the minutes.

“How far to Oakcrest?” Hayes asked the driver.

“Six minutes, sir,” the driver replied, activating the vehicle’s emergency lights.

The blue and red strobes reflected off the wet asphalt of the suburban streets.

The officer in the passenger seat was still typing.

“The wipe is at sixty percent,” he said.

“I’ve managed to isolate a small cache of financial files before the connection degraded.”

“What do they show?” I asked.

The officer turned around in his seat, looking at me with a strange expression.

“Captain,” he said. “These records don’t just show your mother-in-law’s accounts.”

“They show your name on three foreign bank accounts I’ve never seen before.”

“My name?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” the officer said. “And there are transactions dating back two years.”