We walked up the concrete path toward the front porch.

The glowing blue light belonged to a smartphone resting on a small wicker table.

Beside it sat an empty glass with the remains of an amber drink.

The heavy wooden front door clicked and swung open before we reached the steps.

Daniel stood in the entryway.

His collar was wrinkled, his tie hung loose, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Morgan?” he asked, his voice cracking in the damp air.

“What are you doing here with military police?”

“Step aside, Daniel,” Hayes said, his voice carrying the weight of his rank.

Patricia appeared behind her son, her silver hair perfectly styled despite the late hour.

She wore a dark silk robe, her hands folded primly in front of her.

“This is private property,” Patricia said, her voice sharp and steady.

“You have no authority to harass my family in the middle of the night.”

The tech officer, Lieutenant Miller, stepped up beside me, holding a ruggedized military tablet.

“Actually, ma’am, we have a federal warrant signed by a magistrate ten minutes ago,” Miller said.