Before I could answer, a loud command echoed from the darkness outside.

“State Police! Drop your weapon!”

The red and blue lights of three patrol units flared through the cracks of the boathouse walls.

Wade froze, his eyes darting toward the door.

Sophia Reyes stood in the doorway, her service weapon raised and aimed at Wade’s head.

Two state troopers moved in behind her, their rifles raised.

“Put the gun down, Thomas,” Sophia said, her voice steady.

“It’s over.”

Wade looked at the troopers, then at me, his face twisting in realization.

He slowly lowered his revolver and placed it on the floor.

“You’re making a mistake,” Wade muttered as the troopers grabbed his arms.

“Margaret Reed will walk away from this.”

“She always does.”

“Not this time,” Sophia said, picking up Wade’s gun.

She turned to me and pointed to the tackle box in my hand.

“Did you find it?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, handing it to her.

“Let’s go end this.”

We drove in a convoy to the Reed estate, the headlights cutting through the heavy iron gates.