I backed toward the glass doors of the terrace.

“You can try,” I said.

“But the federal agents are already at the Westwood penthouse.”

“And they have a warrant for your arrest, too.”

Victoria froze, her hand still outstretched.

Adelaide gasped, dropping her purse onto the stone floor.

The gold clasp broke, spilling lipstick and credit cards across the terrace.

I turned and walked quickly through the living room.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I hurried down the long, carpeted hallway.

Every step felt heavy, my back aching from the strain of the pregnancy.

I reached the heavy oak front doors of the mansion.

Outside, the afternoon sun glared off the white gravel driveway.

A black SUV with tinted windows was idling near the security gate.

The driver’s door opened, and a man in a dark suit stepped out.

He didn’t look like a Callahan guard.

He looked like a federal marshal.

He caught my eye and gave a sharp nod.

I walked down the steps, my hand protectively over my stomach.

Behind me, I heard Victoria shouting from the terrace, her voice faint but furious.