If he was moving money now, he was violating the judge’s order.

But he was desperate enough not to care.

We reached Sarah’s car in the parking garage.

The concrete structure was damp and cold, smelling of exhaust and wet asphalt.

“Get in,” Sarah said, unlocking the doors.

“We need to call the forensic team immediately.”

I sat in the passenger seat, staring at the gray dashboard.

My phone buzzed in my purse.

I pulled it out, expecting a message from my mother or the nanny.

It was an email notification.

The sender was an anonymous address.

The subject line read: *Draft Statement: Cassandra Bellamy’s Mental Health Struggles.*

There was a PDF attachment.

I opened it.

The document was on the letterhead of the Montgomery Family Therapy Center.

It listed dates, times, and detailed descriptions of panic attacks I had never had.

It described me as “hallucinatory” and “unable to care for minor children.”

My thumb trembled as I scrolled through the pages.

The signature at the bottom was a perfect digital match for a doctor I had never met.

“Sarah,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.