Before Vance could respond, a low rumble sounded from the driveway.

Two dark blue transport vans with federal government plates turned through the stone gates.

They were followed by three unmarked black sedans.

The convoy slowed to a halt in front of the main house, their tires grinding against the wet gravel.

The doors of the vans opened, and men in dark suits with gold badges pinned to their lapels stepped out into the rain.

I watched as the lead marshal, a tall man with graying hair and a stern expression, walked toward the portico.

He held a leather folder under his arm to protect it from the wet weather.

At the same time, the front door of the Monroe mansion opened.

Patricia Monroe stepped out onto the porch, flanked by her personal attorney.

She was dressed in a pristine cream-colored wool coat that looked entirely out of place in the gray rain.

Her silver hair was perfectly coiffed, and her chin was held high, though her eyes were narrowed as she took in the scene.

She looked at the federal marshals, then at Vance, and finally at me.