The baseball sat heavy and scuffed in my palm, the red stitching coarse against my skin. Above us, the second-floor gallery fell utterly silent, save for the rhythmic, defiant chewing of bubblegum from a kid with messy brown curls and an oversized hoodie.

By 4:00 PM, the Connecticut sky had turned the color of bruised steel, spitting freezing mist that clung to the bare branches of the twenty acres of dead trees surrounding the mansion. I stood on the south lawn in my heavy wool coat and combat boots, a battered wooden baseball bat resting casually across my shoulder.

Ten yards away, Evan stood on a makeshift pitcher’s mound, his breath pluming in white clouds in the frigid air. Caleb, Noah, and Luke sat bundled up on a nearby wooden bench like a jury of miniature executioners, while two of Adrian’s armed guards stood fifty feet back, hands folded behind their backs, looking like statues carved out of expensive suits.

Up on the second-floor balcony, half-hidden behind glass, stood Adrian himself, watching through the falling mist.

"You’re going to break your wrists," Evan yelled across the damp grass, twirling the baseball in his hand. "My slider drops six inches at the plate!"

"Then I’ll just swing lower!" I shouted back. "Stop talking, start pitching, or I’m going inside to make hot chocolate without marshmallows!"

Evan’s face hardened. He coiled his small body, kicked his leg high, and hurled the ball with every ounce of furious, pent-up energy he possessed.

The white sphere hissed through the misty air, cutting a sharp downward arc right as it crossed the plate. It was a nasty, vicious pitch for an eleven-year-old.

I didn't flinch. I planted my back foot, rotated my hips with the explosive torque of someone who had spent three years playing college softball before dropping out to care for her sister, and brought the bat around in a clean, horizontal arc.

CRACK.

The sound of ash wood meeting leather echoed off the stone walls of the mansion. The ball exploded off the barrel of the bat, soaring high over the iron gates, disappearing into the dark treeline beyond the property line.

Absolute silence descended on the south lawn.

Evan stood frozen on the mound, his pitching arm still extended, his mouth slightly open. Caleb and Noah leaped off the bench, jumping up and down with their mouths wide open in pure, unadulterated shock. Even Luke let out a tiny, high-pitched cheer, clapping his mitten-covered hands together.

I lowered the bat, letting it rest on the grass, and wiped a strand of wet hair out of my face.

"Not bad," I called out across the lawn to Evan, walking slowly toward the mound. "Good movement, nice spin rate. But you telegraph your grip when you throw the slider. Your index finger twitches twice before you wind up."

Evan lowered his head, staring at the grass, his shoulders shaking slightly. For a second, I thought I’d gone too far, that I’d crushed whatever fragile ego he used to protect himself.

Then he looked up, his eyes suspiciously bright, and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Do that again."

"Not today, kid," I said, stopping right in front of him and resting a hand on his small, rigid shoulder. "It’s getting cold, and your brothers are turning into popsicles. Plus, your dad’s watching from the balcony, and I think I just gave him a minor heart attack."

Evan glanced up toward the second-floor balcony. Sure enough, Adrian was no longer standing behind the glass. The balcony door was open, and a tall, dark silhouette was striding purposefully down toward the lawn.