“We sold your ‘abandoned’ Arlington house for $5.2 million,” my dad bragged over Christmas dinner, “and took a 25% management fee.”-hongtran

“The wolves,” I said, “wear badges, follow warrants, and send you home at the end of the day if you cooperate. They’re a lot kinder than some of the animals I deal with.”
Agent Walsh cleared her throat gently. “We need to move them now, Under Secretary.”
I stepped back.
“Go with them,” I said to my parents. “Answer their questions. Tell them everything. The more honest you are, the better this will go. Or the less badly, anyway.”
My mother reached for me, then snatched her hand back, as if touching me might burn.
“How can you do this to us?” she whispered. “We’re your mother and father.”
I thought about the anonymous loan that had kept my father’s company afloat. The venue deposit that had magically appeared when Jessica wanted a fairytale wedding. The nights I’d sat alone in hotel rooms overseas, watching footage of natural disasters or bombings and quietly rerouting aid, while my family texted photos of champagne at openings.
“You did this to yourselves,” I said.
They didn’t understand. Maybe they never would.
The agents escorted them out. Another team moved through the apartment quickly, efficiently, cataloguing electronics, hard drives, files. They took my father’s tablet, his phone, my mother’s laptop with its folder full of carefully curated charity events and social calendars. They boxed up anything with a power button.
By noon, the penthouse was quieter than I’d ever known it to be.
Jessica and Tyler had retreated to the guest room on the far side of the apartment, where I could hear Jessica sobbing in small, outraged gasps, punctuated by sentences like, “How will I show my face?” and “Influencers don’t do prison visits.”
I sat alone at the kitchen island, sipping fresh coffee made by a very confused housekeeper, and watched the city go on outside the windows. Cars, people, lives.
My phone buzzed with a call from Morrison.
“It’s done,” he said. “They’re on their way to a field office. Initial interviews only. No cuffs. We’re not staging a perp walk for your parents, Madison.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“We’ve frozen the funds from the sale,” he continued. “Meridian will find the money inaccessible for the foreseeable future. Treasury is on them. The Arlington property is back under full federal control. Our people are sweeping it for any tampering.”
“And my parents?” I asked.
“First impressions?” he said. “They’re arrogant, short-sighted, and entitled. But they’re not spies. They’re… civilians who wandered into a minefield and started digging for treasure. That’s a crime, but it’s not treason.”
The word treason sat heavily between us.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Investigations, paperwork, a hell of a lot of briefings,” he said dryly. “Probably probation, fines, professional sanctions. Maybe a very stern judge if they get lippy. No prison time, unless something truly stupid turns up. Given your position, we’re handling this by the book. Conflict-of-interest protocols are already in place.”
“Good,” I said.
“And you?” he asked. “You holding up?”
I looked around at the gleaming kitchen, the untouched fruit in a silver bowl, the designer stools that had never been sat on for anything as messy as grief.
“I’m fine,” I said.
It wasn’t true in the emotional sense, but it was accurate in the operational one. The breach was contained. The system had worked. The damage, while severe, was survivable.
“I’ll see you in D.C. in a few days,” he said. “We’ll debrief. In the meantime, go home. Your real one.”
I hung up.

Home.
For years, I’d tried to pretend that word applied to this penthouse. To these people. To the way my last name looked on embossed invitations.