A loud crash came from the front double doors of the mansion.

The glass shattered as federal agents breached the entryway, their weapons raised.

I could hear my husband Ryan’s voice screaming from inside the foyer.

“You can’t do this!” Ryan yelled, his voice cracking with a high-pitched panic. “Do you know who my father is?”

“Sir, step away from the door and put your hands on your head!” an agent shouted back.

Through the broken glass of the entrance, I saw Charles Whitmore standing in the hallway.

His silk robe was half-tied, and his face was pale under the harsh halogen flashlights of the team.

Evelyn stood behind him, clutching a leather jewelry box to her chest.

“This is an outrage,” Charles said, though his voice lacked its usual booming authority.

An agent stripped the jewelry box from Evelyn’s hands and forced them both toward the wall.

Sheriff Mercer was already being led out of the side door, his silver badge glinting in the searchlights.

Two federal officers walked on either side of him, their hands on his shoulders.