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When my FBI husband told me to hide in the attic because there had been a “security issue,” I killed the lamps, climbed the stairs in my socks, and locked myself behind the steel door believing the threat was somewhere outside our house—but then I heard the front door open, watched him come home like he’d simply beaten traffic, and saw my mother, my sister, and her husband follow him inside with the kind of calm people only wear when they’ve already agreed on what happens next. From the vent above the living room, I listened as papers hit the counter, old family tensions snapped into place, and my mother asked the one quiet question that made the whole plan suddenly clear...