“Mr. Prescott,” the deputy said, stepping in front of him. “You are barred from entering these premises.”

“Get out of my way,” Callum said, trying to push past him.

The deputy did not move. He placed a hand on his utility belt.

“Do not make this a physical matter, sir,” the officer said.

Callum stopped.

His eyes scanned the brick wall, then landed on the security camera.

He knew I was watching.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.

The phone in my lap vibrated again.

I pressed the side button to silence the ringer.

“He looks desperate,” Arthur said quietly.

“He is realizing he has nowhere to go,” I said.

The heavy iron gates began to hum, opening slowly.

The marshals escorted Vivian and Callum up the long, winding driveway.

Arthur shifted his car into drive and followed them through the gates.

The gravel crunched under our tires as we parked near the fountain.

The massive limestone mansion looked dark and dead.

Callum saw Arthur’s car and ran toward us, his shoes splashing through puddles.

I rolled my window down three inches.