“This is the state police,” a voice boomed from the front yard. “Identify yourselves and step out with your hands up.”

Harris went pale.

“They’re at the front,” he whispered.

“The basement,” Julian said, his voice urgent. “Now, Harris.”

Harris looked at the phone, then at me, then at the hallway.

He reached down and grabbed the phone, shoving it into his pocket.

The red light went dark, but the camera had already done its work.

“Move,” Julian said, reaching out to grab my wrist.

I pulled my arm back, my knuckles scraping against the edge of the induction cooktop.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said.

Julian’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening the way it always did before he lost his temper.

“You don’t have a choice, Clara,” he said, taking a step toward me.

The kitchen island was the only thing separating us.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the cool, heavy metal of the skillet handle.

The cast iron felt solid, grounded, a weight that belonged to me and no one else.

“Don’t touch me,” I said.

Julian didn’t listen.