I reached for the brass deadbolt, my palm slick with sweat.

Maren stood up from the sofa, her shadow stretching long and thin across the wooden floor.

“Adrian, wait,” she whispered.

I opened the door anyway.

The damp, salty night air of coastal Maine rushed into the warm hallway.

A black sedan sat in the driveway, its headlights cutting through the coastal fog.

The driver’s side door opened, and a man stepped out into the bright beams.

It was Arthur Vance, my personal attorney, his wool overcoat collar turned up against the wind.

He looked older than he had twenty-four hours ago.

“Arthur,” I said, stepping onto the porch. “What are you doing here?”

He walked up the steps, his leather shoes clicking on the damp wood.

“The federal prosecutors didn’t want to wait until morning,” Arthur said, his voice flat.

He stopped in front of me, his breath pluming in the cold air.

“It’s over, Adrian.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your mother was indicted an hour ago,” he said. “Conspiracy, wire fraud, and falsifying medical records.”

I stared at him, the words sinking in slowly.