Grant looked at me again, his eyes darting to the door and back.

He leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the rain.

“Allison, please,” he said.

“Just give me five minutes,” he whispered.

“I can give you the names of the others,” he said.

“I can help you,” he added.

I looked at him, seeing the panic in his eyes.

He still thought this was a domestic dispute.

He still thought he was dealing with his ex-wife.

“The time for talking is over, Grant,” I said.

The wind rattled the glass pane of the front door.

The agent with the box of folders set it on the floor.

General Vance stepped forward, his uniform immaculate despite the storm.

“Take them out,” Vance said to the marshals.

The marshal pulled Grant toward the door.

Grant resisted slightly, his shoes sliding on the polished hardwood.

“Allison!” he called out.

“You can’t let them do this!” he shouted.

“I have a right to talk to you!” he added.

Patricia stood motionless as the second marshal stepped toward her.

She did not scream.