Three tactical officers stood on the porch, their rifles aimed directly at Julian.

A tall man in a dark trench coat pushed past them, holding a golden badge.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the man said. “Nobody move.”

He looked at me, then down at Arthur.

Julian kept his hands near his belt, his eyes darting to the window.

“Don’t even try it, Maroni,” the agent said.

Two tactical officers stepped inside, instantly securing Julian’s wrists in plastic zip-ties.

They did not touch me.

I stepped back, my shoulder pressing against the cold stone of the fireplace.

Arthur let out a low, rattling cough from the floor.

He looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused in the glare of the flashlight.

“Clara,” he whispered. “What did you do?”

I did not answer him.

An EMT knelt beside him, checking his pulse and securing his hands in steel cuffs.

The agent in the trench coat pulled a two-way radio from his belt.

“Target one is secured,” he said into the receiver. “Initiate Phase Two.”

A voice crackled back through the speaker, distorted by static.