My mother looked back at the screen, her eyes wide with sheer terror.

“Maren,” she whispered, her hand shaking so badly the camera tilted toward the ceiling. “He’s coming.”

The door to her living room slammed open on the video feed.

A tall, dark shadow fell across the carpet, and then the screen went black.

My heart hammered against my ribs as the screen went dark.

The hum of the fluorescent lights in the interrogation room felt suddenly deafening.

“Sheriff, get deputies to that house right now,” I said.

Miller was already on his radio, his voice barking coordinates to his patrol units.

“Voss, what happens if Dorian gets that key?” I asked, turning to the attorney.

Voss adjusted his glasses, his knuckles white against his leather briefcase.

“If he executes that transfer, the funds will be routed through three different offshore accounts before sunrise,” Voss said.

“We won’t be able to trace it, let alone recover it.”

“And my mother?” I asked.

“She is currently assisting in a federal bank fraud scheme,” Voss replied quietly.

“Even if she did it under duress, her signature is on the initial authorization forms Vance used.”