Through the thick curtain of falling snow, a pair of headlights appeared at the end of our driveway.

The vehicle was driving erratically, its back end fishtailing wildly on the unplowed road.

It wasn’t a police cruiser or a marshal’s SUV.

It was a rusted, dented pickup truck, its engine roaring loudly in the quiet night.

“Get back,” Jake said, pulling me behind the wheel of Reyes’s SUV.

The truck didn’t slow down as it approached the driveway entrance.

It slammed into our wooden mailbox, sending splinters of wood and metal flying into the air before skidding sideways across the snow.

It came to a halt just ten feet from where we stood, the steam rising from its radiator grill.

Through the cracked, snow-dusted windshield, the dashboard light illuminated the driver’s face.

It wasn’t Logan.

It was a woman, her hair wild and wet, her face bruised.

She stared out at the flashing lights of the federal vehicles, her hands gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.

She opened the driver’s side door and stumbled out into the cold, collapsing into the snow before she could even take a step.