“The side gate,” Alexander said, his voice flat and hard. “Someone bypassed the keypad.”

Margaret Wells stepped into the room behind me, her tablet already clutched to her chest.

“I am calling the security detail at the townhouse now,” Margaret said, her voice steady but fast.

On the small screen of Alexander’s phone, a black sedan was parked idling near the curb of the Upper East Side street.

Two men in dark suits stood near the wrought-iron gate, talking to the guard inside the intercom booth.

“That is my mother’s private security team,” Alexander said.

His thumb pressed a speed dial button, and he held the phone to his ear.

“This is Alexander Sterling,” he said into the receiver. “Isolate the boys. Put the house on lockdown now.”

There was a brief pause as he listened, his eyes locking onto mine.

“I don’t care what authorization they claim to have,” Alexander said. “No one enters.”

He ended the call and looked at Margaret.

“Get the car,” Alexander said. “Now.”

“It is already waiting downstairs,” Margaret said, turning toward the door.