“Why do you women have to be so difficult?” the gunman asked. He wrapped his arm around her head and shoved the rag down her throat. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be nice to the boy.”

Grandma Rose watched through blurred vision as the gunman pulled out his cell phone, placed a brief call in hushed tones, then crept up the stairs. She struggled against the ropes, but they held tight. She coughed hard, hoping to dislodge the rag. Nothing worked. She couldn’t even stomp her foot in anger. She prayed that Charlie had heard her warning.

Boards creaked above her head. The gunman was working his way through the rooms upstairs. Charlie had numerous hiding places, but he was only eight. It would only be a matter of time before the gunman found him.

Why was this happening? Why was a dead FBI agent lying on the floor in front of her? Why was a man with a gun hunting for her grandson? There had to be a reason. She thought through the possibilities.

One: Charlie had done something. The child spent most of his time at either school or home, which limited his opportunities to meddle with criminals. April monitored his time on the computer, so he hadn’t stumbled into trouble online. And he never went over to friends’ house unsupervised. No, Charlie was out of the equation.

Two: April had done something. Unless she was living a double life, it was hard to imagine that she had anything to do with this. She held a government job and socialized with powerful people, but her workplace was a glorified library, not the White House. Still, an FBI agent had just arrived looking for something of hers. And now that FBI agent was dead. His death must have been a terrible error, a horrific coincidence. The real blame lay elsewhere.

Three: August had done something. Of course he had. Grandma Rose fought her instinct to blame him, but he was certainly a prime candidate. Danger not only followed him; it seemed to envelop him like a fog. He bartered with scoundrels. He peddled to billionaires. If she had to wager a bet, her chips would land squarely on August.

She mentally scrolled through the recent conversations she’d overheard between April and August. Her eavesdropping was purely accidental, the result of picking the phone up at the wrong time. Most were heated battles over the lack of time August spent with Charlie. It’s not my fault, he would explain. My work requires me to travel, and without my work I wouldn’t be able to send you child support. April parried with a battery of questions. Child support? Is not spending time with your son called support? Is not sending a check for two months called support? Be patient with me, he always said. I’m working on something big.