I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows, the throw blanket snarled around my feet. I sit up and free my feet from the blanket. My neck is a little stiff and bruised, but nothing some yoga and coffee can’t cure. Maybe I’ll go for a run today. The morning is bright with possibility. My dream of pulling the dead flowers out of a garden has left me feeling oddly comforted. Dad used to garden—it was one of the few things we did together. Ethan always had his nose in a book, and Mom was usually busy grading papers or running errands, so I’d help Dad weed or spread mulch, as much as a seven-year-old could help.

Wilson, curled in his bed, opens a single eye to gaze at me, then sighs. “Who’s a sleepyhead?” I say, grinning. Wilson’s ears twitch, but then his eye drifts to a close.

There’s a Post-it note from Ethan stuck on the TV, saying he’s gone to work and to please take care of Wilson. It’s signed: BE CAREFUL—ETHAN. I’m both touched by my brother’s concern and annoyed that I didn’t wake up when he came out of his room. Usually a single footstep brings me wide awake. I must have really needed the sleep.

Somebody knocks on the front door, four hard raps. Wilson, startled, barks and shoots out of his bed, making a beeline for the door. I glance around—no one else is in the den or the kitchen. Is Tane still asleep in my brother’s room?

Whoever is outside knocks again, and Wilson gives off a fresh volley of barks. “Just a minute,” I call out, then grab my revolver from the coffee table. Holding the revolver behind my leg, I crack open the front door just enough so I can block the doorway and keep Wilson from running outside.

Two people crowd the tiny front porch. One is a Black woman in a gray pantsuit and purple blouse, her hair a halo of highlighted brown curls. The other is White, a bald fireplug of a guy in a blue suit and red tie. The woman’s face is calm, professional, a neutral mask. The man is all scowls and eyebrows—resentment wafts off him like a bad cologne. I know exactly what they are before they say a word.

“Ms. Faulkner?” the woman says.

“That’s me,” I say.

She holds up an ID. “I’m Special Agent Rondeau with the FBI. This is Agent Scott. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

I make a show of examining Special Agent Rondeau’s ID, giving me time to scope the situation—what my old Krav Maga instructor, Jakob, a retired Israeli soldier, called a threat assessment. I learn a few things: