MY BROTHER-IN-LAW STRUCK MY MOTHER WITH A FIREPLACE POKER, CLAIMED SHE WAS DELUSIONAL, AND HAD HER DETAINED—UNTIL I WALKED IN AND THE DETECTIVE TURNED PALE.

The federal chopper landed on the massive lawn of the Tahoe estate just as the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the water. Local police had barricaded the driveway, but they hadn't moved in.

I threw on a Kevlar vest over my blouse and grabbed my badge. Marcus was right beside me, holding a tactical rifle.

"He's barricaded in the study," the sheriff reported. "He’s demanding a hostage negotiator and a private jet, or he burns the house down."

"He doesn't want a jet," I realized. "He's stalling. He's destroying evidence."

I didn't wait for the hostage negotiator. I signaled Marcus, and we breached the front door. The house smelled of gasoline and burning paper.

We moved tactically through the grand hallway, the same hallway where I had grown up playing hide and seek. Now, it was a battleground. We reached the heavy oak doors of the study. Smoke was billowing from beneath the crack.

Marcus kicked the door open.

Greg was frantically tossing ledgers and USB drives into the blazing fireplace. The wall safe behind the bookshelf was wide open.