My brother bragged at Sunday dinner that he’d sold my “worthless old laptop” for $500, and my family laughed while I sat there trying not to panic. The machine was actually a secure government-issued device tied to my cyber threat work, so I stepped outside and reported it compromised. Twenty minutes later, six FBI agents were at my parents’ door—and then one of them told Brandon the buyer had been looking for him long before he posted it... / Chapter 7 / 10

Chapter 7 - The Interrogation RoomBy 3:00 a.m., the Baltimore FBI field office smelled of cold pizza, stale coffee, and the sterile hum of fluorescent overhead fixtures.

I sat in an observation booth overlooking Interrogation Room B.

Through the one-way glass, I watched the man who had bought the laptop from Brandon. His name was Viktor Vance—no relation to our family drama, just an operative working out of a diplomatic annex in D.C., currently sitting handcuffed to a bolted metal table with two federal prosecutors hovering over him.

He wasn't talking. Operatives rarely did on the first pass. But his handlers had already compromised their local cell by making a desperate dash to retrieve a bricked piece of hardware.

The door to the observation booth clicked open, and Special Agent Vega walked in, holding a steaming paper cup of black coffee. She handed it to me without a word.

“Your brother’s preliminary hearing is scheduled for 9:00 a.m. tomorrow,” Vega said, leaning against the back counter. “The U.S. Attorney’s office is charging him with accessory to espionage, possession of stolen federal property, and unauthorized access to secure networks.”

I took a slow sip of the bitter coffee. “Is he going away?”

“He’s looking at five to ten,” Vega said bluntly. “Unless he cooperates fully and gives us every detail of how he was targeted by Vance’s network. But given how hard he tried to cover up his own stupidity at your parents’ dinner table, I doubt he even realizes the magnitude of what he stepped into.”

“He never realized anything outside of his own reflection,” I murmured, staring through the glass at the empty chair across from the foreign operative.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out. It was a text message from an unsaved number, though I recognized the frantic, tear-stained punctuation instantly. It was Megan.

Ethan, please. Your father is sick. Your mother hasn't stopped crying. Brandon is terrified. Can you please call the FBI? Tell them it was all a terrible misunderstanding. Please, you’re family.

I stared at the screen for several long seconds.

For thirty years, “family” had been the magic word that excused every boundary violation, every condescending joke, every casual dismissal of my career, and every reckless act of entitlement my brother committed.

Family meant covering for Brandon when he crashed his first car. Family meant laughing along when my accomplishments were brushed aside so we could toast to another one of his mediocre sales quotas.