“This is my home, Allison,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Not anymore, Patricia,” I said.

“You have no right to do this to us,” she said.

She stood up slowly, her silk robe rustling against the cushions.

One of the agents took her arm to guide her toward the door.

“Do not touch me,” she snapped, pulling away with a jerk of her shoulder.

“Ma’am, you need to walk to the vehicle,” the agent said, his voice calm but firm.

Grant stood up next, his hands bound in front of him with heavy plastic zip-ties.

He did not look at his mother.

He looked only at me, his jaw slack and his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Allison,” he said.

I did not answer him.

“Move them out,” I told the agents.

I walked ahead of them, pushing open the heavy front double doors.

The cool morning air hit my face, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine.

It was October in Buckhead, and the morning mist hung thick over the manicured lawn.

The gravel driveway was lined with black government Suburbans.