I hurried to keep up with him, refusing to be left behind in the dark.

The wind from the helicopter rotors was dying down as the engines began to idle.

The air smelled of hot metal, aviation fuel, and cut grass.

We entered the house through the shattered glass of the side terrace.

The grand living room, usually so pristine, was in chaos.

Dozens of agents were moving through the hallways, tagging evidence and securing doors.

Ryan was sitting on the floor in the corner, his hands cuffed behind his back.

When he saw me, his eyes widened with a desperate, angry light.

“Emily!” he hissed, trying to stand up before an agent pushed him back down. “What did you do? What did your freak of a father do?”

I stopped and looked down at him, feeling a strange coldness wash over me.

The man who had made me feel so small for three years now looked pathetic on the Persian rug.

“It’s over, Ryan,” I said quietly.

“You’re crazy,” he muttered, spitting onto the floor. “My dad’s lawyers will have us out of here by morning.”