The playback stopped. The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone. Nobody in the hallway dared to breathe.

Dean swallowed hard. “That… you can’t record me in my own home. That’s illegal.”

Marcus looked at him with a gaze cold enough to freeze the sun. “No, Dean. Battering your wife and holding her hostage is illegal. What I did was gather evidence.”

While Marcus held the family at a standstill, the other agents fanned out through the house.

The basement was where Dean kept what he called his “consulting tools.”

He thought I never went down there. He was wrong. Over the past weeks I had photographed the packages wrapped tightly in heavy industrial plastic. I had documented the inexplicable bundles of cash secured with thick rubber bands.