The Denver air was cold enough to bite through my light jacket.

I pulled my duffel bag from the trunk of the rental car and shut the door with a quiet click.

Eight weeks in a damp safehouse in Seattle had left my bones aching.

My home, a sprawling stone estate tucked against the foothills, looked exactly as I had left it.

But the gravel driveway was empty of my usual car.

Instead, a sleek black Mercedes SUV sat in my spot.

I walked up the stone steps, my fingers tingling from the autumn chill.

I did not use the keyless entry code.

I pushed the heavy oak front door open, expecting the quiet warmth of a Tuesday afternoon.

A sharp, high-pitched scream shattered the silence of the foyer.

It came from the formal dining room.

I dropped my bag on the marble floor.

My hand instinctively moved toward the empty holster at my lower back.

I walked quickly, my boots making no sound on the Persian rug.

“Clean it up, you useless little brat,” a woman’s voice snapped.

It was not a voice I recognized, but it was harsh and dripping with venom.

I stepped through the arched entryway of the dining room.

My five-year-old daughter, Lily, was kneeling on the hardwood floor.

A shattered porcelain bowl and spilled oatmeal lay scattered around her bare knees.

A woman in a red silk blouse

stood over her, holding a cup of steaming black coffee.

She did not look up when I entered.

“I said, clean it up,” the woman repeated, her voice sharp as glass.

Lily did not move.

She sat on her shins, her tiny shoulders shaking under a faded blue shirt that was too small for her.

Her hands were pressed against the floor, inches away from the sharp porcelain shards.

“Step back from my daughter,” I said.

My voice was flat and cold.

The woman in the red blouse spun around.

Her coffee splashed over the rim of her cup, staining the white linen tablecloth.

She was young, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail.