He was staring at the floor, his hands clamped between his knees, realizing his own custody of Owen was slipping away forever.

The financial restitution he would owe for his part in his mother’s schemes would ruin him.

Judge Henderson cleared her throat and looked at the documents in front of her.

“Based on this evidence, I am denying the custody petition,” the judge said.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the back of the courtroom swung open with a loud thud.

A man in a dark suit walked in quickly, carrying a bright red folder.

He bypassed the gallery and walked straight toward the prosecution’s table.

He handed a single sheet of paper to Agent Vance.

Vance read it, his eyebrows rising, and then he looked up at my father.

“Colonel,” Vance whispered, his voice tense. “We have a problem with the nursery downstairs.”

My heart dropped into my stomach.

I gripped the edge of the wooden table, my knuckles turning white.

My father did not hesitate.

“What do you mean?” my father demanded, his voice low and sharp like a blade.