I slid my thumb across the glass and pressed the phone to my ear.

“Evelyn,” Clara’s voice was crisp, cutting through the quiet of my hospital room.

“I see the signature,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“He used a notary from his own office to witness it,” she replied. “Sloane Barrett.”

I looked down at the forged name on the screen.

“It’s a federal crime,” I said.

“It is,” Clara said. “But he is desperate, Evelyn. The banks are calling in his personal guarantees on the Riverview project this Friday.”

“How much time do I have?” I asked.

“We need to move you now,” Clara said. “Your father has authorized the security team at the estate. The transport is waiting downstairs.”

My body still ached from the delivery, a dull throbbing in my lower back that reminded me of my vulnerability.

I looked at Maisie, sleeping in her plastic bassinet.

Her tiny chest rose and fell beneath the pink flannel blanket.

“I’m ready,” I said.

I hung up and gathered my things.

My hands were shaking, but my grip on the handle of Maisie’s car seat was firm.