The first thing I saw when I opened my front door was not my daughter’s welcome-home balloon, not the strawberry cake I had ordered weeks before I vanished into a deep-cover assignment, and not the purple princess gown Maya had begged to wear for my return.

While Julian sat in a holding cell facing burglary and aggravated stalking charges, Chloe was learning that you can't outrun a federal task force—even if they're acting entirely off the books to help a friend.

My old team tracked her down in three days.

She was hiding out in a cheap motel in Reno, trying to hustle a local car dealership owner into paying her debts. I didn't go personally. I sent Vance.

According to Vance, when the US Marshals kicked down her motel door, Chloe screamed that it was Julian's fault. She threw him under the bus instantly, claiming Julian had orchestrated the abuse, that Julian had forced her to discipline Maya, that Julian was a mastermind who manipulated her.

It was laughable. But the detectives let her talk, recording every word as she buried herself deeper into conspiracy and felony accessory charges.

Back in Seattle, Julian's court-appointed lawyer played the tapes for him.

Julian called me from the jailhouse phone. I answered only because I wanted to hear the sound of his total defeat.

"She blamed me," his voice sounded hollow, devoid of any of the pompous arrogance he used to carry. "She told them I made her do it."

"There is no honor among thieves, Julian," I said coldly.

"Clara... I’m going to prison, aren't I?"

"Yes," I said. "You are."