My mother-in-law slapped me during labor and told me the hospital could wait until she finished sleeping.

“She’s at the house,” Mark said, his voice dropping an octave into chilling calm.

Sterling immediately pulled out her phone. “Stay right where you are. I’m calling Detective Reynolds directly.”

On the phone screen, the camera feed tracked Evelyn’s movements. She bypassed the broken front door, which had been boarded up and secured by police tape, and walked toward the side entrance near the garage. She pulled a spare key from a decorative stone beneath the hydrangea bush—a hiding spot only the family knew.

“What is she doing?” I asked, leaning over Mark’s shoulder, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Why would she go back there?”

“The nursery,” Mark realized, his voice trembling with anger. “Clara had a fireproof safe in the nursery closet where we kept our original passports, social security cards, and the baby’s hospital footprint certificate.”

“She’s looking for the thumb drive,” Sterling interrupted, looking up from her phone as she waited for dispatch to connect. “She knows Mark had copies of the estate records. Arthur must have realized what Mark threatened on the phone call.”

On the video feed, Evelyn disappeared inside the house.

Two minutes later, the camera in the nursery triggered. Evelyn walked into the pastel-painted room, her sunglasses pushed up onto her head. The calm, refined matriarch was completely gone; on the camera, she looked frantic, wild-eyed, and desperate. She tore through the closet shelves, throwing baby blankets, unwrapped diapers, and stuffed animals onto the floor.

She reached the small steel lockbox on the upper shelf, grabbed it, and dropped it into her leather tote bag.

Then, the flashing blue lights reflected through the nursery window.

Deputy Miller’s patrol car screeched into the driveway, blocking Arthur’s silver sedan. Two more cruisers pulled up behind him, tires throwing gravel across the manicured lawn.

Evelyn froze. She turned toward the window, her face contorting into an expression of sheer, trapped terror.

On the phone, Sterling spoke clearly. “Detective Reynolds? This is Sarah Sterling. Evelyn Vance is currently inside the 404 Elmwood residence in direct, recorded violation of the Emergency Protective Order issued by Magistrate Jenkins. She is committing active burglary of the premises.”

We watched the screen in rapt silence.

Downstairs, the front door was kicked open. Officers moved through the house with weapons drawn. Within ninety seconds, two deputies led Evelyn out through the front porch in handcuffs—again.

Arthur Vance was already outside the car, his hands raised in the air, his expensive suit rumpled as an officer pushed him against the hood of his sedan to pat him down. Arthur was shouting, waving his arms, pointing at the house, trying to claim attorney-client privilege.

The deputies didn't care.

They searched Evelyn’s tote bag on the trunk of the cruiser. They pulled out the lockbox, along with a bottle of prescription sedatives and a set of forged notarized travel documents in Maya’s name that Arthur had evidently prepared.

“My God,” I whispered, cold dread pooling in my stomach. “She was planning to take Maya out of the country.”

“She was going to try,” Sterling said, closing her briefcase with a decisive snap. “Arthur had international custody petitions drafted for Costa Rica. They knew the criminal case here was unwinnable. She was going to grab the baby from the hospital before the protective order took full effect, but Mark’s early arrival and the police intervention ruined her timeline.”

Mark closed the phone screen. His hands were completely steady now. The grief, the confusion, and the lingering hesitation were gone, replaced by a quiet, lethal resolve.

“Sterling,” Mark said.

“Yes, Mark?”

“Give the FBI the estate files. Give Reynolds the video feed. I want every single charge the law allows. I want them both in prison for the rest of their lives.”