“Who signed the warrant?”

“Judge Vance,” Miller said. “He’s been on the Prescott payroll for ten years. I’m sorry, Colonel. My hands are tied on this one.”

“You’ve done enough,” I said. “Keep your head down.”

I ended the call and set the phone on the wooden table.

My fingers felt cold.

I looked at my civilian smartphone again.

The screen still displayed the red banner warning me of the suspended accounts.

Margaret Prescott had cut off my capital in less than two hours.

She wanted me stranded, broke, and unable to hire a legal team for my daughter.

I stood up and walked into the small bedroom where Emily lay.

The dim light of a bedside lamp showed the pale contours of her face.

The dark purple bruising along her jawline had begun to yellow at the edges.

“Emily,” I said softly, touching her shoulder.

She flinched, her eyes snapping open with a sudden, sharp terror.

“It’s me,” I said. “It’s Mom.”

She let out a ragged breath and sat up, clutching her side where her ribs were cracked.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is Ethan here?”