Grant turned his head slowly to look at his mother.

His eyes were wide, pleading.

“Mother,” he whispered.

“Shut up, Grant,” Patricia snapped, her voice dropping its polite Southern veneer.

She turned her cold glare back to me.

“You think you can come into my home and ruin this family, Allison?” she asked.

“It isn’t your home,” I said.

“It never was,” I added.

The wind outside howled, throwing a heavy pine branch against the side of the house with a sharp crack.

The phone on the console table began to ring again.

The screen flashed with the name of the Monroe family’s chief financial officer.

Nobody answered it.

The marshal reached out and took Grant by the elbow.

Grant flinched as the cold steel of the first cuff touched his wrist.

“Wait,” Patricia said, taking a step toward the marshal.

“My lawyers will have this dismissed before the end of the day,” she said.

“Your lawyers are currently being served with search warrants at your corporate headquarters,” Vance said.

Arthur turned a page in the audit report.

“This document lists the primary beneficiary of the Apex shell company,” Arthur said.