“She wanted us to turn back,” Rowan said.

He pulled his black waterproof jacket over the baby, tucking her head securely against his chest.

“We do not turn back,” he added.

Headlights swept across the trees at the far edge of the lawn.

The bright beams cut through the heavy rain, reflecting off the wet pine needles.

“They are locking down the main gate,” Marcus said.

“We go through the western drainage culvert,” Rowan said.

“It is flooded,” Marcus replied.

“It is our only blind spot,” Rowan said.

He turned to me, his hand coming up to touch my wet face.

His fingers were cold, but his grip was steady.

“Keep close to Marcus,” he whispered.

“I am not leaving you,” I said.

“You are not leaving me,” he said. “We are getting our daughter out of there.”

He turned and sprinted toward the shadow of the brick retaining wall.

Marcus and I followed him into the freezing dark.

The rain was coming down harder now, turning the manicured lawns into slick mud.

Above us, the high-security lights of the Whitmore estate began to hum.