“Vivian Bradford?” the agent asked, his voice echoing off the stone pillars.

Vivian drew herself up, her chin tilting high, trying to regain her composure.

“Do you have any idea whose wedding you are disrupting?” she demanded.

The agent did not flinch.

“We are with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said, pulling a folded document from his jacket.

He stepped past me, his eyes glancing briefly at the triplets, before stopping directly in front of Vivian.

In Vivian’s hand, her silver smartphone began to vibrate violently, the screen lighting up with a dozen rapid alerts.

The wind from Lake Geneva rattled the glass panels of the pavilion.

The scent of fresh-cut white lilies in the floral arrangements suddenly felt suffocating.

The vibration of Vivian’s phone was a low, angry buzz against her palm.

She did not answer it, but her thumb twitched over the glass screen.

“Vivian Bradford, we have a warrant for your arrest,” the lead agent said.

He held out a thick document bound in blue paper.

Vivian did not reach for it.

Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her silver clutch.