Ethan did not move; he kept his head down, staring at his own hands.

“Ethan!” she screamed.

The trooper grabbed Margaret’s wrists and pulled them behind her back.

The sharp metallic click of the handcuffs locking shut sounded across the room.

Olivia was still crying, her face hidden in her coat on the table.

I looked at the blue folder on the judge’s desk, containing the paperwork that would let me hold my daughter.

She was waiting in the social worker’s office on the third floor of this very building.

I could picture her small, round face, the dark hair she inherited from my side of the family.

The Lawson name, which had dominated Denver’s high society for fifty years, was ruined in a single afternoon.

The reporters outside would already be receiving the feed from the court’s public access system.

Margaret’s mugshot would be on the evening news before the sun set behind the Rockies.

But we were not done.

Julian Morris was still standing by the rail, his phone buzzing in his hand.

He looked down at the screen, his expression changing from exhaustion to sudden alarm.