I went upstairs to the nursery.

The rain had started, a steady beat against the heavy glass windows.

June was sleeping in her crib, her small chest rising and falling.

I sat in the rocking chair, staring at the dark garden outside.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was a text from Lydia.

*I have everything. Be ready at eight.*

I did not sleep that night.

I listened to the wind off the Atlantic.

I watched the fog roll over the cliffs of Newport.

The morning arrived with a gray, heavy sky.

The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with mist.

Lydia met me at the bottom of the courthouse steps.

The Newport Probate and Family Court was an old stone building near the harbor.

The steps were wet and slippery.

Lydia wore a dark gray suit, her briefcase heavy in her right hand.

“They are going to play dirty,” Lydia whispered.

“I know,” I said.

We walked into Courtroom 3.

The room smelled of wet wool and lemon polish.

Judge Harrison sat on the bench.