My father did not look at Bell; he looked at the lead agent, who was already holding a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

“This is an outrage,” Gordon said, though his voice lacked its usual booming authority. “There is nothing here but family records.”

“We will be the judges of that, sir,” the lead agent said.

The agents began to move through the house with practiced efficiency.

One of them carried a black nylon case containing forensic imaging drives.

“The study,” I told the agent, pointing down the east corridor. “The primary server rack is located in the closet behind the desk.”

My father’s head snapped toward me, his eyes filled with a cold, venomous hatred.

“You signed your own ruin, Evelyn,” he whispered.

“No, Father,” I said. “I signed a commissioning oath twenty-five years ago.”

Paul Mercer slumped into a dining chair, his face the color of ashes.

“We need to call the lawyers, Gordon,” Paul muttered, his hands shaking as he reached for his phone.

An agent gently but firmly intercepted Paul’s hand. “Please leave all electronic devices on the table, sir.”