The fluorescent lights of the Ashburn Police Department buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the waiting room. Jesse sat beside Alina on the hard bench, his knuckles bandaged, his eyes fixed on a scuff on the tiled floor. Alina's briefcase, now tightly locked, rested on her lap like a steel vault.
Victor paced a few feet away, his arms crossed, jaw tight. The arrested intruder was in custody, unconscious from the knock Gran had delivered.
Alina leaned toward Jesse. "The police are stalling. Why haven't they taken our statement?"
"They're not stalling," Victor muttered. "They're waiting."
"For what?" Jesse asked.
Victor gave a half-smile. "Someone important."
Right then, the door to the hallway creaked open. Polished shoes clicked against the linoleum.
A tall, thin man stepped in, dressed in a perfectly pressed grey suit, black folder in hand. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and a gold pin shaped like an eagle gleamed from his lapel.
"Mr. Wimbleton" Jesse said under his breath, rising slowly. "Of course."
Alina's posture tensed instantly. She remembered him-the immigration officer who had shown up weeks ago asking questions about their marriage. Too many questions.
"Mr. Jesse Langley," Wimbleton said smoothly, "and Mrs. Alina Langley. What an... unexpected place to find you."
Victor stepped protectively between them. "Is this an immigration matter?"
Wimbleton gave a tight smile. "It's whatever I decide it to be."
Alina stood. "You're overstepping. We were attacked. Where were you when masked men broke into a citizen's home?"
"Oh, I'm not here for them," Wimbleton said, flicking open the folder. "I'm here because new information has surfaced about your *contracted* marriage. Your residence is being flagged for review. Again."
Jesse's jaw clenched. "This isn't the time for bureaucratic games."
"I assure you," Wimbleton replied, "nothing about this is a game. Except perhaps..."-his eyes flicked to Victor-"...how you all keep conveniently running into trouble. And secrets."
Alina crossed her arms. "You didn't come here because of immigration. You came because you know what that intruder was looking for."
Wimbleton's eyes twitched, just slightly. "Miss Sterling, I suggest you choose your words carefully."
Victor took a step forward. "Tell us who sent you."
"I work for the United States government."
"Wrong division," Victor said coldly. "Who *really* sent you?"
Wimbleton's smile dropped. "I suggest you all stop digging. Because the more you dig, the more likely you are to end up buried."
A tense silence fell.
Then the captain of the station walked in. "Webbington. You're done here. This is a criminal investigation, not your jurisdiction."
Wimbleton stepped back, closing his folder. "For now."
As he turned to leave, he paused by Jesse. "One last thing. If you think love makes you immune to consequences, think again."
Jesse didn't blink. "If you touch her again, even with a letter-there won't be a next time."
Wimbleton chuckled under his breath and walked out.
Alina slowly let out a breath. "He's in it. Whatever *it* is-he's part of it."
Victor nodded. "Virella has deep roots."
Jesse turned to Alina, eyes hard. "Then it's time we start digging faster than they can bury."
Outside the police station, headlights flared in the distance.
Someone else was watching.
****
The car ride back from the station was quiet. Tense. Heavy.
Alina sat in the front seat beside Victor, her arms crossed tightly, jaw set like stone. Jesse sat behind them, staring out the window. The streetlights passed in slow rhythm, illuminating his reflection - eyes stormy, shoulders rigid.
No one spoke until they reached the house.
Gran had already cleaned up the broken glass and brewed tea, acting like masked intruders were just an everyday nuisance. When they entered, she handed Jesse a cup and nodded toward the kitchen.
"Strong enough to keep your head working. Sit."
Victor took off his coat and draped it over the couch. "We need to talk."
Alina sat down, opened her laptop, and began scanning for anything suspicious in her company's email servers. "Webbington isn't just some immigration hound sniffing around for fun. Someone's paying him."
"Virella," Jesse said simply.
Victor nodded. "Or worse-someo