The screen went black as the camera’s motion-sensor timer expired.

“They have her,” Leo said.

He sat down on the edge of my hospital bed and took my hand.

His fingers were cold.

“It is really happening,” I said.

My voice sounded thin and dry, like old paper.

“She can’t hurt you anymore, Grace,” Leo said.

He leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

The smell of hospital soap and cheap coffee clung to his shirt.

In the bassinet next to us, Sam let out a soft, whimpering sigh.

I looked over at him.

His cheeks were finally regaining some color, no longer the gray, hollow shade they had been when we brought him in.

An hour later, a knock sounded on the heavy wooden door of the recovery room.

Sarah Vance, our attorney, walked in.

She carried a thick, black leather briefcase.

Her eyes were dark with exhaustion, but her mouth was set in a firm line.

“The police just processed Josephine at the station,” Sarah said, pulling up a plastic chair.

She unzipped her briefcase and pulled out a stack of documents.