The estate appeared out of the mist, a massive stone wall topped with black iron gates.

Two security guards in dark tactical gear saluted as the gates swung open for us.

The house was a sprawling structure of heavy timber, local stone, and reinforced glass.

Floodlights illuminated the gravel driveway and the dense woods surrounding the perimeter.

Marco met us at the heavy oak front door, his hand resting near his belt.

“Everything is secure, boss,” Marco said, stepping aside to let us into the warm foyer.

“The perimeter patrols are doubled, and the motion sensors are fully active.”

“Did the Chicago police finalize the booking?” Ryker asked, setting Owen down on his feet.

“Eleanor Vance is in a holding cell,” Marco said. “Her lawyers are trying to secure bail, but the prosecutor is holding her on a flight risk.”

“Keep pressure on them,” Ryker said. “I want her kept behind bars where she can’t touch them.”

I led the children into the warmth of the great room.

A fire was crackling in the massive stone fireplace, casting long shadows across the high-ceilinged space.