I pressed my palm against the cool brass handrail to steady myself.

My baby kicked, a sharp, sudden movement that made me catch my breath.

“Not much longer,” I whispered to the empty car.

The doors opened on the third floor, where the family law courtrooms were located.

Arthur Vance was waiting for me near the heavy oak benches by the water fountain.

He wore his usual charcoal suit, the fabric slightly frayed at the cuffs.

In his hand, he held a worn leather briefcase containing the true records of Prescott Global.

“Did he take the bait?” Arthur asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“He is calling Whitaker right now,” I said. “He’s desperate.”

“The federal investigators have been monitoring Whitaker’s office line since nine this morning,” Arthur said.

He checked his silver pocket watch, a habit from his thirty years of serving my late father-in-law.

“Callum is walking into a trap of his own making,” Arthur added.

We walked down the wide corridor toward the glass-walled consultation rooms.

Through the tinted glass of Room 204, I could see Callum.