“My name is Harold Vance,” the man said. “I am the legal representative for Josephine Sullivan.”

“I am calling to formally notify you that we have filed a motion for immediate protective custody.”

“Your husband is currently trespassing on private property.”

“And the police have already been dispatched.”

I froze, the phone pressed hard against my ear.

“What?” I gasped.

“We knew he would come for the funds, Mrs. Sullivan,” the lawyer said calmly.

“Your husband has just walked into a very difficult situation.”

Through the phone, I heard a sudden, loud crash in the background of Leo’s text thread, followed by a status update that showed his phone had disconnected from the network.

The lawyer’s voice continued, smooth and cold.

“I suggest you prepare yourself for the hearing.”

“It is going to be a very long night.”

The line went silent.

I stood in the center of the sterile room, the rain beating a relentless tattoo against the glass, completely alone.

The door to the hospital room slowly began to creak open.

I turned, expecting the deputy, but the shadow falling across the floor was much taller.