My three daughters went completely silent after their mother was murdered, and for fourteen months, not even the best specialists money could buy could make them speak. Then I came home six hours early and heard them singing with our new housekeeper, but the miracle ended when my daughter grabbed her hand, looked toward the hallway, and whispered, “Daddy… Mommy’s killer is still living in our house.”

Marco didn't hesitate.

Realizing the game was up, his hand darted beneath his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the grip of his Glock 19.

Before his barrel could clear the leather holster, two high-velocity red laser dots painted the center of his forehead.

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass patio doors, four elite snipers from the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Hostage Rescue Team were positioned on the garden terrace, their heavy rifles tracking Marco’s every millimeter.

“Move a muscle, Marco,” I said in a voice as cold as a tombstone, “and my daughters will watch your skull paint that wall.”

Marco stood completely paralyzed, the veins in his neck bulging, sweat breaking out across his forehead.

“Grace,” I said softly.

“Yes, Dominic?”

“Take the girls to the armored Suburban at the service entrance. Agent Davis is waiting to escort you to the federal safehouse in White Plains.”

Grace nodded with calm, heroic composure. She took Nora into her arms, while Olivia and Sophie gripped her hands tightly.

As Sophie walked past Marco, she stopped.

The six-year-old girl who had been terrified of her own shadow for fourteen months lifted her chin. She looked straight into the eyes of the man who had threatened her life, and spoke her first words in front of him:

“You are not my uncle,” Sophie said, her voice clear, steady, and fearless. “You are a monster.”

She turned and walked out the door with her sisters, stepping into the sunlight without looking back.

A ragged, defeated breath escaped Marco’s lungs.