I put the phone in my pocket.

Maren came back down the stairs a few minutes later.

She had changed into a thick wool cardigan.

“Are they asleep?” I asked.

“No,” she said, leaning against the banister. “But they are quiet.”

She looked at me for a long time.

“This is going to be in the news, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “My mother is a prominent figure in Boston. The trial will be public.”

Maren rubbed her temples.

“The kids,” she whispered. “They don’t know anything about the Whitmore name.”

“They will soon,” I said. “The reporters will try to find them.”

“I won’t let them near my children,” Maren said, her voice turning fierce again.

“Our children,” I said gently.

She flinched slightly, but she didn’t correct me.

“We have to protect them, Maren,” I said. “I can hire a security team for this house.”

“No,” she said. “No men in suits standing outside. That will only scare them more.”

“Then we need to prepare them,” I said. “We have to tell them the truth before they hear it from someone else.”