PART 2 — THE SECRET BEHIND THE FEDERAL WARNING
The metallic click wasn’t a gunshot. It was the sound of Officer Dennis Prior releasing the safety strap on his holster. “DON’T!” I screamed. Special Agent Marcus Bell moved before Prior could draw. He slammed into the officer’s shoulder, driving us both against the Escalade. I stumbled sideways as another agent seized Prior’s right arm and pinned it behind his back. “GET OFF ME!” Prior roared. His knees hit the pavement. Within seconds, two agents secured his wrists with heavy-duty plastic restraints. He twisted violently, shouting, “I’m a police officer! You can’t do this!” Marcus crouched beside him. “You were warned to stand down. You reached for your weapon while holding a protected federal official.” Prior spat toward his shoes. “She’s lying about who she is!”
I pressed a hand against my aching wrist. Marcus approached me. “Director Aldridge, are you injured?” “Nothing broken. Why was the response team so close?” He hesitated. That single hesitation frightened me more than the confrontation. Marcus had worked beside me through classified investigations and overseas security emergencies. He rarely hesitated. “Ma’am, we need to get you inside.” “Marcus. Tell me what’s happening.” He lowered his voice. “We received an alert about your address thirty-six minutes before the officer arrived.” My stomach tightened. “What kind of alert?” “Someone accessed your restricted residential protection file using credentials assigned to the Clarendon Hills Police Department.”
I looked toward Prior. He had stopped struggling. For the first time, genuine fear flickered across his face. “That’s impossible,” I whispered. “Local officers can’t access that file.” “They’re not supposed to,” Marcus answered. Two agents escorted Prior toward an SUV while he shouted that he wanted a lawyer. Before they reached the vehicle, a dark sedan appeared at the entrance. Deputy Chief Owen Farrell stepped out, adjusting his uniform jacket. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded. Marcus displayed his FBI credentials. “Federal investigation. Your officer is being detained pending further inquiry.” Farrell stared at Prior’s restrained hands. “Dennis, what did you do?” Prior suddenly shouted, “You told me she wasn’t supposed to be here!”
The driveway fell silent. Farrell’s face drained of color. “Shut your mouth, Dennis.” I stepped toward him. “What exactly wasn’t I supposed to be here for, Deputy Chief?” Farrell raised both hands. “Director, this is a misunderstanding.” “You know who I am?” He swallowed. “I was informed of your position.” “Then why did your officer try to arrest me?” Marcus moved between us. “Deputy Chief, don’t leave.” Farrell glanced toward his sedan. Two agents quietly closed the distance to his vehicle. He seemed to understand that his options had disappeared. Then Marcus’s phone vibrated. He checked the screen, and his expression changed. “Naomi,” he said, forgetting formal protocol, “we found something.”
He showed me a surveillance still taken outside a federal records contractor’s office three nights earlier. The photograph showed Farrell exchanging an envelope with a man I recognized immediately. Nathan Sloane. A former intelligence contractor I’d helped remove from a sensitive government program after evidence of unauthorized data transfers surfaced. He was currently under federal investigation. “Why is Sloane meeting a local deputy chief?” I demanded. Marcus answered, “We believe someone has been tracking your movements.” Suddenly, the speaker inside Marcus’s earpiece crackled. His face hardened. “All units, secure the residence. Possible unauthorized entry.” I turned toward my beautiful six-bedroom house. Through the second-floor window, I saw a shadow move behind the curtains.
My daughter, Lily, was inside.
And she wasn’t supposed to be home until six.
PART 3 — THE HOUSE THAT HELD THE TRUTH
“LILY!” I screamed, sprinting toward the front door. Marcus caught my arm before I reached the steps. “Naomi, stop! We don’t know who’s inside!” I fought his grip. “My daughter is in that house!” “Then let us get her out!” Two FBI agents moved toward the entrance while another secured Farrell beside his sedan. I grabbed my phone and called Lily. One ring. Two. Then her frightened whisper. “Mom?” My knees almost buckled. “Sweetheart, where are you?” “Upstairs. In your office. There’s a man downstairs. He said he came to check the security system.” I forced myself to breathe. “Lock the door. Stay away from the windows.” Suddenly, a man’s voice sounded behind her. “Who are you talking to?” The call disconnected.
