The timestamp on the request was four minutes ago.

I looked up from the screen to see Helen’s thumb pressing down on the screen of her own phone, her hand hidden partly behind her purse.

“Put the phone down, Mother,” I said.

My voice was level, carrying across the quiet foyer.

Several officers near the buffet line turned to look.

Helen did not turn around.

Her thumb moved faster across the screen of her phone.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Helen said, her back still to me.

She pushed the brass handle of the exterior door.

The cold air from the harbor rushed in, carrying the scent of salt water and wet asphalt.

Agent Vance stepped into her path, his wet trench coat blocking the gray light of the courtyard.

“Mrs. Rogers, stop,” Vance said.

“Get out of my way,” Helen said, her voice rising.

“You have no right to hold me here.”

Behind her, Michael stepped out of the ballroom, his Navy whites looking stiff and stark against the dark wood paneling of the hallway.

“Mother, what is going on?” Michael asked.