“Martin Collins? Claire Whitaker?” the lead man asked, his voice echoing in the marble hallway.

“Yes,” Martin said, his voice barely a whisper.

The agent reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of silver handcuffs.

The metal cuffs clicked shut around my grandfather’s wrists.

It was a sharp, final sound that echoed off the cold marble walls of the courthouse.

Claire let out a ragged gasp as the second agent secured her wrists behind her back.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the lead agent said, his voice flat and mechanical.

My mother looked at my father, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief.

“Daniel, please,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling.

“Tell them this is a mistake. Talk to them.”

My father did not step forward.

He stood beside me, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder.

“I have nothing left to say to you, Claire,” he said quietly.

The agents turned them around and guided them toward the service elevators.

Martin’s head was bowed, his shoulders slumped under his expensive wool coat.