It was Charles Vance, Daniel’s primary custody lawyer.

He carried a black leather briefcase and did not look pleased as he scanned the waiting area.

“We need to go,” I said, sliding the brittle papers back into the manila folder.

My fingers fumbled with the red rubber band, snapping it against my wrist.

The sharp pain kept me grounded.

“Why is Mr. Vance here?” Mason asked, his voice trembling as he stood up.

“He’s just doing his job,” I said, grabbing my purse. “But we are leaving.”

I stood up and guided the boys toward the side exit, near the emergency stairwell.

The air in the corridor was cold and smelled of floor wax and bleach.

We walked quickly, our sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

I held the folder tight against my ribs, hidden under my coat.

Behind us, the heavy door to the waiting room hissed shut.

“Emily?” a voice called out from the hallway.

I did not stop.

I pushed open the heavy metal door to the stairwell and ushered the boys inside.

The concrete stairs spiraled down into the dim basement parking garage.