“I agree with Ms. Jenkins,” the judge said.

“Mr. Vance, you may raise your issues during the presentation of your case.”

“Let’s begin.”

The bailiff stepped forward and read the case file number into the record.

“In the matter of Rosie Whitmore,” the bailiff said.

The sound of my daughter’s name in this cold room made my throat tighten.

I pictured Rosie at my mother’s house, coloring at the kitchen table, completely unaware of the storm.

Grant stood up to take the oath first.

He adjusted his blue tie, the silk shimmering under the fluorescent lights.

He looked every bit the successful, grieving father he wanted the court to see.

“I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” Grant said.

He looked directly at the judge, his expression solemn and sincere.

“Mr. Whitmore,” Vance began, stepping up to the podium.

“Can you describe the current living arrangements you have prepared for your daughter?”

Grant cleared his throat.

“I have prepared a beautiful room for Rosie at my mother’s estate in Belle Meade,” Grant said.