The deputy signed his logbook, gave me a brief, sympathetic look, and walked back out into the rain.

The front door clicked shut, leaving the hallway quiet except for the sound of the storm.

My mother held my hand. “Where are the boys?”

“They’re upstairs with the nanny,” I said. “They’re sleeping.”

“We won’t wake them yet,” Marcus said. “We’ll carry them to the car.”

I looked at the wet window, the red and blue police lights finally fading down the long driveway.

We had less than twelve hours to save my children from Vivian’s grasp.

“We need the bank statements,” I told Marcus as we walked quickly toward the stairs.

“Which ones?” Marcus asked.

“The ones showing the offshore transfers she made using the boys’ names,” I said.

My heart was pounding, but my mind was suddenly very clear.

I remembered the files I had secured weeks ago, the ones Vivian thought she had deleted from the corporate servers.

I had the proof of her systematic harassment, the photos her hired investigators had taken of my sons at their preschool.