Inside the main foyer, the front double doors were propped wide open to let the agents pass through.

I stepped into the dry warmth of the house, the smell of expensive beeswax and damp wool filling my nose.

A female agent was already standing in front of the large oil painting hanging in the entry hall.

She attached a barcoded tag to the corner of the heavy gold frame.

“Valuation estimate is three hundred thousand, minimum,” the agent muttered into a voice recorder.

Patricia pushed past the guard at the door, her heels clicking frantically on the hardwood floor.

“That painting has been in my family for three generations,” Patricia said, her fingers trembling as she pointed at the agent.

“It belongs to the federal government now, ma’am,” the agent said, not even looking up from her tablet.

Grant followed his mother inside, his eyes wild as he scanned the room.

He looked at me, his gaze full of betrayal and desperation.

“Allison, please,” Grant whispered, his voice shaking. “Stop this. We can talk about this.”

“The time for talking ended when you signed those offshore transfer documents, Grant,” I said.