The text message arrived at 2:17 AM Pacific Time, vibrating my phone across the nightstand of my Seattle hotel room with enough force to wake me from a fitful sleep. I’d been dreaming about the Castellano case again—the same nightmare where I’m running through dark corridors trying to reach Angela Moretti before they do, always one door behind, always one second too late. I grabbed the phone, squinting against the sudden brightness, expecting it to be Deputy Chief Crawford with an update on the protection detail.
Instead, my mother’s name glowed on the screen.
The message was characteristically brief, characteristically tone-deaf: Finally did something about that house of yours. You’re welcome.
I stared at those words for a full thirty seconds before my sleep-deprived brain could process them. The house.
My house in Alexandria, Virginia.
The three-bedroom colonial I’d purchased two years ago after making Deputy U.S. Marshal, the property I’d specifically chosen because it sat exactly fifteen minutes from the federal courthouse and twenty minutes from the Marshal Service headquarters in Arlington. My fingers moved across the screen: Mom?
What do you mean?
The response came immediately, as if she’d been waiting for me to wake up and appreciate her handiwork. Sold it.
You were never there anyway, always traveling for that job of yours. The money will help your sister with her wedding.
You can stop being so selfish now.
I sat up so abruptly I nearly threw the phone across the room. My heart was hammering, my mouth suddenly dry. This had to be a joke.
Some kind of terrible, ill-conceived joke that would make sense in the morning after I’d had coffee and could think clearly.
You sold MY house? I typed, hands shaking.
Don’t be dramatic, Sarah. We had your power of attorney from when you were overseas.
We used it.
That house was just sitting there empty while you gallivanted around the country. $850,000 cash. Your father and I split it with Rachel for her wedding expenses.
You should be thanking us.
Family takes care of family. The words blurred on the screen as my vision tunneled.
Power of attorney. The document I’d signed six years ago when I deployed to Afghanistan as a military police officer, giving my parents temporary authority to handle my affairs while I was in a combat zone.
The document I’d completely forgotten to revoke when I returned stateside and transitioned to the Marshal Service.
The document they’d just used to sell my house without my knowledge, without my consent, without any understanding of what they’d actually done. Mom, you need to stop the sale immediately, I typed, trying to keep my rising panic out of my word choice. This is serious.
You don’t understand what you’ve done.
It’s done, Sarah. We closed yesterday.
The money’s already distributed. Stop being so selfish and dramatic.
This is exactly why you’re still single at thirty-two—you only think about yourself.
We’ll see you at the reunion next week. Try to be pleasant for once. My hands were trembling so badly I could barely hold the phone.
I pulled up my recent calls and dialed Deputy Chief Crawford’s personal cell, the one reserved for emergencies only.
He answered on the third ring, his voice rough with sleep but instantly alert—the voice of a man who’d spent twenty-five years in federal law enforcement and knew that middle-of-the-night calls meant something had gone catastrophically wrong. “Mitchell.
This better be important.”
“Sir, we have a situation.” I took a breath, trying to steady my voice. “My family just sold my house in Alexandria.”
Silence.
Then: “Your house?
The property at 2847 Sycamore?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus Christ, Mitchell. The safe house?”
“Yes, sir. The one we’ve been using for the Moretti family.”
Another pause, longer this time, heavy with implications I could hear him processing.
“For the Castellano case.”
“When did this happen?”
“They closed yesterday.
I just found out.”
“Who’s currently in residence?”
“According to the last protection detail report I saw, Angela Moretti and her two children. They’re scheduled to remain there for another three weeks before final relocation to the new identity program.”
“And your family sold a federal safe house.” His voice had gone flat, dangerous.
“To whom?”
“I don’t know yet, sir. My mother mentioned $850,000 cash.”
I heard him exhale slowly, the sound of a man calculating risk scenarios and finding them all unacceptable.
“Mitchell, get back to D.C.
immediately. I’m activating the emergency response protocol. We need to relocate the Morettis within hours and figure out exactly what the hell just happened and who knows about it.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
