We stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut on the chaos of the hallway.

As the car descended to the garage, I pulled my phone from my pocket.

I opened the security application for the Prescott family estate.

The screen lit up, showing the live camera feed of the massive wrought-iron gates.

A black town car was idling just outside the entrance, its headlights cutting through the rain.

The security guard inside the stone booth was on his phone, looking confused.

I tapped the screen, entering the administrator override code Arthur had given me.

The indicator light on the gate control panel turned from green to a solid, locked red.

The elevator doors parted with a soft chime.

The air in the subterranean garage smelled of damp concrete, exhaust, and cold rain.

Arthur stepped out first, his leather soles clicking rhythmically against the floor.

I followed him, holding my hand over my stomach where my child rested.

“The federal marshals are already on their way to the Lake Forest house,” Arthur said.

He unlocked his sedan, the headlights flashing twice in the dim garage.