A group of federal agents and local police officers entered the study, led by a man in a dark suit.

“Conrad Harrow? Grant Harrow?” the agent asked, holding up a badge. “We have warrants for your arrest.”

Grant dropped his glass, and it shattered on the hardwood floor, spilling scotch across the oriental rug.

“This is a mistake,” Antoinette screamed, stepping between the officers and her husband. “Do you know who we are?”

“Step aside, ma’am,” the agent said calmly.

Two officers walked past her and approached Conrad.

The old man stood up slowly, his joints popping, and offered his wrists without saying a word.

The click of the handcuffs was loud in the quiet room.

Grant began to weep, his shoulders shaking as another officer grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back.

“Amelia, please,” Grant sobbed, looking back at me as they led him away. “Think of Lily.”

“I am thinking of Lily,” I said. “That is why I am doing this.”

They walked him out of the room, his wet shoes squeaking on the marble floor.