Through the double glass doors, I could see Charles Whitmore.

He was sitting in a leather armchair, his face pale and sunken.

Two agents stood over him, one of them holding a pair of steel handcuffs.

Evelyn Whitmore was sitting on the sofa nearby, weeping into a linen handkerchief.

Her perfect hair was messy, and her diamond rings caught the light as she clutched her face.

Sheriff Daniel Mercer was in the corner of the room.

His tan uniform looked rumpled, and his gun belt was already lying on the coffee table.

An agent was checking his pockets, pulling out a thick manila envelope.

“What is this?” the agent asked, holding up the envelope.

“That is personal property,” Mercer growled, his face red.

My father walked into the library, his boots crunching on a stray piece of glass.

Mercer looked up, his jaw tightening when he saw him.

“Hale,” Mercer said. “You brought this circus to my town?”

“It was never your town, Daniel,” my father said.

Ward walked to the coffee table and picked up the manila envelope.

He opened it and slid out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.