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And standing at the head of the table, wearing a crisp charcoal three-piece suit, his gold pocket watch chain draped across his vest, his hands resting flat on the mahogany, was **Arthur Vance**.
Flanking Arthur’s shoulders were two men who did not belong to Garrison’s social club:
On his left stood **Special Agent Marcus Vance**—Arthur’s second cousin and the senior directing supervisor of the FBI’s Public Corruption & Financial Crimes Unit in Philadelphia.
On his right stood **District Attorney David Miller**—the chief prosecutor for the County of Lancaster, holding an open, red-stamped federal indictment binder.
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“Garrison,” Arthur said, his baritone calm, level, and carrying the terrifying weight of an iron vault door closing. “Take off your coat. You’re tracking mud across Caroline’s floors.”
Garrison’s eyes darted from the little girl eating pancakes to the federal badge pinned to Marcus Vance’s lapel. The color drained from his jawline with sickening, blinding speed.
