“My personal accounts are with a local North Carolina bank,” I said. “Margaret Prescott sits on their board of trustees.”

“She’s going to stop at nothing,” Emily whispered.

“She also had a judge sign an arrest warrant for you,” I said. “They’re claiming you stole from the family.”

Emily let out a dry, bitter laugh that turned into a gasp of pain.

“Stole what?” she asked. “I left that house with nothing but the clothes on my back and a broken collarbone.”

“They don’t need truth,” I said. “They just need a charge to get you back in their custody.”

I drove west, away from the city center, heading toward the dense pine forests near the Uwharrie range.

I knew a retired Master Sergeant named Marcus Kane who lived on a five-acre plot out there.

Kane had served under me in Iraq; he was a man who didn’t ask questions and didn’t trust local authorities.

The drive took forty-five minutes through winding, unlit back roads.

The smell of wet pine and damp upholstery filled the small cabin of the car.