I didn’t look back at my father.

I turned the brass wristband on my right arm, feeling the cold metal with David’s officer serial code pressed against my skin.

“Carry out Order 409-B, Captain,” I said.

“Understood, ma’am,” Keller answered.

He turned toward the second vehicle.

Two federal marshals in dark coats climbed out carrying blue vinyl document binders.

One headed straight for Julian, while the other stepped onto the brick walk that led up to the front door.

“Julian Vance,” the first marshal said, reading off a white sheet in his folder.