“Clara!” Julian called again from the porch, his voice accompanied by the wet squeak of leather gloves against the wood.

“I know he’s in there,” Julian said. “His driver is a very talkative man when he’s staring down a barrel.”

Arthur cursed under his breath, his boots shifting slightly on the linoleum.

He looked at me, his expression a mixture of desperation and his usual, deep-seated condescension.

“We need to go out the back,” he whispered, gesturing with his head toward the small pantry door.

“There is no back door, Arthur,” I said.

“Then we fight our way out,” he said, drawing his weapon.

The cold steel of his automatic pistol caught the white glare of the headlights through the window.

He looked at me as if he expected me to cower, or perhaps to slip into my old role as his shield.

“Put that away,” I said.

“He’s going to kick that door down in ten seconds, Clara,” Arthur said, his voice rising in pitch. “Get your coat. You’re coming with me.”

“I am not going anywhere with you,” I said.