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“Command, this is Unit Twelve. We have arrived at the Sinclair property. Two deputies are holding the interior. One deputy is down near the east side of the house.”

Mom makes a broken sound.

“What about the women inside?” Keating asks.

“Unknown. Shots are coming from the bluff above the property.”

“Do not enter the line of fire. Secure the road and wait for the tactical team.”

Static follows.

Then another voice comes through.

“This is Deputy Collins inside the residence. Three civilians are secure in an interior pantry. One deputy is with them. No injuries.”

My knees nearly give out.

Ben catches me.

“They’re safe,” he whispers.

I press both hands against my face.

Storm lowers her head against Ward’s chest.

Mom begins to cry.

“Can we speak to them?” I ask.

“Not until the house is secure,” Keating replies.

“But you heard the deputy. They’re alive.”

“They’re alive, and I intend to keep them that way.”

Gunfire snaps through the radio.

Keating moves away from us and speaks with the units surrounding the property.

I try to picture Willow, Ivy and Hazel inside the pantry.

Willow will be keeping everyone calm. She commands one of San Francisco’s busiest kitchens every night. A dark pantry and a few bullets won’t make her fall apart.

Ivy will be studying every sound and memorizing every detail.

Hazel will be frightened, but she won’t leave her sisters.

They’re Sinclair women.

They know how to hold on.

Thomas looks toward me.

“Your father would be proud of all of you.”

My fear turns into anger.

“You don’t get to tell me what he would feel.”