We reached the floating bridge, the dark water of Lake Washington stretching out on either side of us.

In the distance, the lights of Bellevue shone through the mist.

My phone buzzed again in the cup holder.

I didn’t look at it.

“Answer it,” Grant said, his voice tense.

“No,” I said.

“It might be my mother,” he said. “She might be trying to tell us something.”

“Your mother only does what your father tells her to do,” I said.

I navigated the winding roads up into the wealthy enclave of the Bellevue hills.

The houses here were hidden behind tall hedges and security gates.

We turned onto the long driveway of the Harrow estate.

The wrought-iron gates were open.

“That’s strange,” Grant said, leaning forward. “They are never open.”

The headlights of my SUV cut through the darkness, illuminating the grand stone facade of the house.

Every window was lit.

I parked the car near the front steps, the gravel crunching under the tires.

I turned off the engine and took a deep breath.

“Stay close to me,” I told Grant.