A side door buzzed open, and a man in a sharp grey suit walked in, carrying a leather briefcase.

Ten minutes later, Patricia walked out of the holding area.

She adjusted her gold watch, her eyes scanning the lobby until they locked onto me.

She did not look like someone who had just been arrested for conspiracy and abuse.

She walked straight toward our bench, her heels clicking sharply on the linoleum.

My father stepped in front of her immediately, his chest rising.

“Keep moving, Patricia,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.

Patricia smiled, a thin, dry line.

“This is a minor delay, Michael,” she said, her voice smooth and quiet.

“A good lawyer is very expensive, and I have dozens of them on retainer.”

She looked past his shoulder, her eyes fixing on me.

“You don’t have the resources to fight me, Hannah,” she said.

“By tomorrow morning, my legal team will file for emergency custody of Owen.”

“You are an unstable, unemployed mother recovering from trauma.”

“I will tie you up in family court until you have nothing left.”