My father-in-law smiled as he told my daughter to try her Christmas gift.

The family court building was an imposing granite fortress downtown. Sleet had turned to dirty slush on the steps.

I walked through the metal detectors flanked by Sarah Klein and Jenna. Across the marble hallway, sitting on a wooden bench, was Mark.

He looked hollowed out. His eyes were bloodshot, his suit rumpled, his hair unwashed. Flanking him was not Arthur, who was legally barred under house arrest, but three corporate attorneys hired by Arthur’s firm.

When Mark saw me, he stood up, taking an instinctive step forward. “Claire—”

“Don't approach my client,” Sarah barked, stepping between us like a guard dog.

“Claire, just talk to me for two minutes,” Mark begged, his voice cracking. “Please. Just two minutes alone.”

I looked at Sarah, who gave a sharp, cautionary shake of her head.

“One minute,” I said. “Right here. In plain view.”

Sarah stepped back, keeping her eyes glued on Arthur’s lawyers.

Mark stepped into the alcove beside the water fountain. He smelled of stale bourbon and cold sweat. “Claire, you have to withdraw the criminal complaint against Dad.”

I looked at him with sheer incredulity. “He burned your daughter’s flesh, Mark.”

“He didn't mean for it to be that bad!” Mark whispered frantically, glancing around. “The chemist messed up the dilution! Dad just wanted a mild rash! Just enough to prove you weren't watching her!”

“Listen to yourself,” I hissed. “You’re making excuses for a monster who used your child as bait!”

“If Dad goes to prison, I go with him!” Mark cried, his voice dropping to a desperate whimper. “You don't understand, Claire. The four hundred thousand dollars wasn't just a loan. Dad made me sign loan agreements that funneled money through Lucy’s college account. He set it up so that if he falls, I go down for tax fraud and embezzlement. I’ll spend ten years in federal prison! Who takes care of Lucy then?”

“I do,” I said coldly. “Like I’ve always done.”

Mark’s face shifted. The desperation hardened into something ugly, weak, and cornered.

“You won't have the chance,” Mark said, his voice turning cold. “Dad’s lawyers just filed the petition. I signed it an hour ago. I’m claiming you’ve been suffering from postpartum psychosis that never resolved. We have your old therapy notes, Claire. The ones where you said you felt overwhelmed. The ones where you admitted you were scared of failing as a mother.”

My stomach turned to pure ice. “He stole those from my desk.”