I picked up my purse.
“What you should have done first.”
Part 3: The Raid
The Vance house looked exactly like it always had. White stone. Black gates. Too much money. Too little warmth.
The difference was the cars.
Black SUVs. Federal plates. Men in windbreakers. One ambulance parked off to the side in case rich people collapsed artistically.
Julian drove like he was chasing the last exit off his old life. I sat beside him in silence.
When we stepped inside, the foyer was chaos.
Agents were opening kitchen cabinets, photographing documents, carrying out sealed boxes. One man in gloves was cataloging the same silver tins stacked in a temperature-controlled pantry like museum pieces.
At the base of the staircase, Beatrice stood in an emerald dress and handcuffs.
She looked at Julian first.
Then at me.
The hatred on her face was cleaner than anything she had ever called love.
“You did this,” she said.
“Yes.”
She straightened as much as the cuffs allowed. “I was helping my grandson.”
I almost smiled.
“No. You were drugging him.”
Julian stepped forward. “Mom, tell them this is a mistake.”
Beatrice turned on him instantly. “Do not embarrass me in front of these people.”
That was his reward. Even then.
One of the agents approached with a clipboard and asked Julian whether he had prior knowledge of the importation. He looked at me. I looked back.
He told the truth. N
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