The heater in the Fenwick Street brownstone had been dead for three days when I finally ran out of believable lies.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I grabbed a heavy wooden rolling pin from the kitchen counter—a completely useless weapon against four armed men, but it was all I had—and walked toward the front hallway.

Behind me, the creak of floorboards signaled that Talia was awake. She stood at the top of the stairs, her fourteen-year-old face pale under the dim yellow light.

"Mari?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Is it the bank?"

"Go back to bed, T," I said, keeping my voice as firm as possible. "Take the kids into the back bedroom. Lock the door. Do not come out unless I tell you to."

"Mari, who are those cars?"

"Go, Talia. Now."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before retreating quietly into the dark upper hallway.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The sound echoed through the hollow door, heavy and measured. Three raps. Not frantic like a landlord, not loud like the police, but confident. The knock of a man who assumed every door would eventually open for him.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my coat over my oversized frame, and pulled the heavy oak door open six inches, keeping the safety chain engaged.

The freezing night air rushed into the hallway. Standing on the porch, flanked by two towering men in leather jackets, was Victor Vance. Up close, his dark eyes were impossibly sharp, scanning my face, my coat, and the rolling pin in my right hand within a single second.

"Marisol Vega?" His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the wood.

"The bank manager is off on Thursdays," I said, trying to hide the shake in my hands. "If you're here to serve an eviction notice, you're wasting your gas."

One of the men beside him made a slight movement, but Victor held up a gloved hand, stopping him instantly.

"I am not from the bank, Miss Vega," Victor said calmly. "And I don't serve papers."

"Then who are you, and why are you on my porch at midnight?"

Victor pulled a thick manila envelope from inside his coat. He didn't offer it through the crack; he held it up so I could see the official state seal stamped on the front corner.

"Ten minutes ago, a judge signed an emergency removal order for nine minors residing at this address," Victor said flatly. "Social services, accompanied by four city police cruisers, are currently eight minutes away. They intend to clear this house, separate the children into four different state facilities across western Massachusetts, and condemn the building by morning."

The world seemed to drop out from beneath my feet. The cold air suddenly felt scorching hot in my lungs.

"No," I whispered, gripping the edge of the door until my knuckles turned white. "No, they can't. The deadline isn't until the end of the month—"

"The bank accelerated the foreclosure," Victor interrupted calmly. "Someone in the mayor's office pushed the paperwork through. You have seven minutes before this street is full of red lights."

"Why do you care?" I demanded, my eyes stinging with sudden, furious tears. "Who are you to come here and tell me this?"