The man standing in the doorway was a federal agent. He looked at me, then at the hallway behind him, and said quietly, “Colonel, we have the guest house on the warrant.” The three calls I had made from the highway had not been to friends. I had contacted a liaison who connected me with a task force that had been investigating the Holloways for two years. Their confidence about courts, politicians, and the media had never been paranoia. It was experience. For a decade, they had made problems disappear. What they had never faced was someone who documented everything while it was happening.

The phone I had placed face-down on the tray had been recording from the moment I stepped out of my vehicle. Rosalind’s claim that the family always won was there. So was Wesley’s remark about women being incapable of handling them. Delphine’s whispered words about the locked guest house and her confiscated phone were there too. The nurse had already preserved the medical records, and the photographs of my daughter’s injuries gave investigators what they needed. Then the door opened, and the agent stepped forward with the warrant. For the first time, the people who had always controlled the room realized they were no longer in charge…