The tactical fob had transmitted Marcus my precise, real-time location and triggered my highest emergency threat code — and it was still transmitting a continuous live audio feed.

Somewhere in a humming dispatch center, federal agents were listening. They had heard Dean’s voice dripping with venom. They had heard Linda complaining about the inconvenience of my blood.

They had heard Frank hand his son a beer to celebrate a beating like a trophy won at a sporting event.

I retreated to the edge of the bed. To the outside world this house was a monument to Dean’s success in “logistics and consulting.” From the inside, it felt like a maximum-security prison.

Outside my door, their voices kept rising. It was barely noon, and the clinking of glasses told me Dean was already deep into his father’s expensive bourbon.

“She actually thinks she can question me,” Dean slurred, drifting under the doorframe. “In front of my own parents! After everything I provide for her!”