The morning air was damp and cold. I walked up the stone path beside Thorne and two county deputies, our vests bearing the yellow FBI insignia. Through the wide bay window of the dining room, I could see Brandon and Chloe — and they weren’t grieving a family tragedy.

They were at the dining table, drinking coffee over a spread of legal folders and estate blueprints, a bottle of expensive champagne waiting on the sideboard.

They were celebrating.

Thorne knocked hard on the heavy oak door. “Federal agents! Open the door!”

Through the glass I saw Chloe jump and knock over her mug, her face going white. Brandon shot to his feet and started sweeping the papers into his briefcase with shaking hands.

Thorne didn’t give them the time. He used the master key we’d secured from Dad, turned the deadbolt, and pushed the door open.