Arthur parked his sedan under the dripping branches of a large oak tree across the street.

Two white federal marshal vehicles were already parked blockading the driveway.

Their blue and red lights flashed against the wet brick walls.

Vivian was standing on the gravel, shouting at a deputy marshal.

Her expensive wool coat was soaked, clinging to her shoulders.

“This is my home!” Vivian screamed. “You have no right to bar me from my own property!”

“The property is registered under the Prescott Heritage Trust, ma’am,” the deputy said.

His voice was calm, carrying over the sound of the rain.

“And that trust is currently under a federal asset freeze,” he added.

“I have personal items inside,” she said, her voice cracking with rage.

“You will be allowed to retrieve one suitcase of essential clothing,” the deputy said. “Under supervision.”

A yellow cab pulled up behind the marshal’s SUV.

The door flung open, and Callum stepped out.

His tie was gone, and his collar was open.

His white shirt was damp, sticking to his chest.

“What is the meaning of this?” Callum demanded, marching toward the gate.