The next morning, they stood on the sidewalk outside their brownstone. Yellow crime scene tape still fluttered across the front door, though Tim had texted an hour ago saying they were cleared to go back in. The FBI had finished processing the scene, had collected evidence, photographed everything, documented the bullet hole in the living room wall that would need repairing.

"You ready?" Nate asked, his hand finding hers.

"No." Prue stared at the front door, her stomach churning. "But we ...