“He should be,” Lydia said, opening the front door. “He has nowhere left to run.”

We walked out onto the driveway, the cold afternoon air hitting my face like a splash of water.

The blue lights of two police cruisers cast long, rhythmic shadows across Sloane’s manicured front lawn.

A neighbor was standing at the edge of the driveway, pretending to retrieve his mail while watching us.

I got into the passenger seat of Lydia’s sedan, my hands still cold.

“Are you okay?” she asked as she started the engine.

“I feel like I’m finally waking up,” I said.

We drove down the winding streets of the suburb, heading toward the county courthouse.

The sky was turning a dull, heavy gray, promising rain before nightfall.

Lydia’s phone hummed on the console between us.

She glanced at the caller ID and put it on speakerphone.

“Lydia Hart,” she said.

“Lydia, it’s Donald,” a man’s voice came through the speakers, sounding hurried. “I’m representing Evan Hayes.”

Lydia looked at me, her expression hardening.

“Go ahead, Donald,” she said.