They moved quickly through the heavy rain toward the gravel path leading to the back.

On the stairs, the federal marshal stepped toward Patricia Monroe.

He did not look at her attorney.

“Patricia Monroe, you are under arrest,” the marshal said.

He read from the paper in his hand.

“The charges include conspiracy against the United States, grand larceny of federal defense funds, and treason.”

Patricia did not flinch.

She stood straight, her chin tilted upward, the rain dripping from the brim of her designer hat.

“This is an absurdity,” Patricia said.

“My family built the infrastructure of this city,” she added.

“Your family built a criminal enterprise on stolen intelligence,” I said.

My voice was flat, carrying easily over the sound of the rain.

Patricia’s eyes snapped to me, cold and sharp.

“You are nothing, Allison,” she said.

“You were a charity case we took into our home,” she muttered.

I did not answer her.

Beside her, Grant was shaking.

His hair was soaked, plastering to his forehead in thin, dark strands.

The marshal turned to him next.