Their heavy boots made no sound on the thick carpet, but their gear clinked in the silence.

“Secured,” Harris said, moving past me to cuff Grant’s wrists behind his back.

Grant did not struggle.

He only stared at me through his thin-rimmed glasses, his expression entirely blank.

“Your mother is downstairs,” I told him.

“She won’t like the noise,” Grant replied.

We walked him out of the small office and down the grand spiral staircase.

The Monroe family estate was silent, but it was a heavy, crowded silence.

The massive crystal chandelier in the foyer cast a cold yellow glow over the marble floor.

Three federal agents were already sorting through the mahogany filing cabinets in the study to our left.

Patricia Monroe stood near the fireplace.

She was wrapped in a cream-colored silk robe that looked far too delicate for the room.

Her silver hair was perfectly styled, but her face was the color of chalk.

General Vance stood near the front door, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a neutral expression.

“This is an absolute outrage,” Patricia said, her voice trembling but sharp.