My baby, Sam, was lying in a plastic crib three doors down, fighting off the dehydration they had caused.

“We don’t have much time,” Leo said, sitting on the edge of my bed.

“The toxicology report is clean,” I said, looking at the white paper in my lap. “That proves I wasn’t drugged by choice, or using.”

“But we need to prove she locked you in that utility room,” Leo said.

He rubbed his face with both hands, his knuckles white.

“If we can’t prove she lied about the timeline, the judge will believe her,” he said.

“What did she tell the social worker?” I asked.

“She claimed she arrived at our house on Tuesday afternoon and found Sam alone,” Leo said.

“That’s a lie,” I said. “She locked me in the basement room on Monday night when you were on the road.”

“I know,” Leo said. “But she’s telling the court I was in Omaha and you had left the house before she even got there.”

“The city truck,” I said.

“Yes,” Leo said. “The GPS. I need Arthur to get those logs.”