“Adrian,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “What is happening?”

“It’s over, Maren,” I said softly.

I walked to the front door and pulled it open.

The cold coastal Maine air rushed into the warm hallway, smelling of salt and wet earth.

Three agents in dark suits stood on the porch.

The man in the center held a gold badge in his hand.

“Adrian Whitmore?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Adrian. This is my mother, Eleanor.”

The agent stepped inside, followed by the other two.

Their heavy boots left wet tracks on Maren’s polished hardwood floor.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” the lead agent said, looking directly at my mother. “I am Special Agent Harris with the FBI.”

“This is an outrage,” Eleanor said, her chin lifting. “Get out of this house.”

“We have a warrant for your arrest, issued by the district court of Massachusetts,” Harris said.

He pulled a folded paper from his breast pocket.

“You are being charged with conspiracy to commit wire fraud and medical record falsification.”

My mother looked at the paper, then at me.

The hatred in her eyes was cold and absolute.