One ear was bigger than the other, one paw looked suspiciously like a potato, and the tiny wooden tie she had glued under its chin leaned sideways.

Twenty-four hours later, Vanessa Price was sitting in an interrogation room at the county detention facility.

Her expensive blow-dry was ruined, her silk blouse creased, and her mascara smeared under her eyes. Across the metal table sat Detective Miller and an assistant district attorney named Sarah Jenkins.

“I want immunity,” Vanessa demanded shrilly, her voice cracking. “I was Grant Whitmore’s victim! He coerced me! He forced me to sign those procurement authorizations!”

Sarah Jenkins smiled thin-lipped and opened a manila folder. “Miss Price, we have emails from your personal account directing offshore banking agents to route corporate defense funds into your mother’s account. Furthermore, we have security footage from yesterday afternoon.”

Jenkins turned a tablet toward Vanessa and hit play.

The screen showed the inside of Grant’s office. The door pushed open, revealing little Lucy with her gift bag. Then, the horrific moment: Vanessa lunging forward, delivering a brutal, open-handed slap that sent the child stumbling backward against the doorframe, crying out in pain.

Vanessa flinched, looking away.

“That is second-degree felony battery on a minor,” Jenkins said coldly. “In this state, with the physical evidence provided by Dr. Harris—including inner-cheek tearing and dental trauma—you are looking at a mandatory minimum of three to five years in state prison.”

Vanessa burst into hysterical tears. “It was Grant! He told me to keep her quiet! He told me if anyone found out about us, he’d cut me off! Please, don’t send me to prison! I’ll tell you everything! I have files on his hidden accounts!”

“We already have his accounts,” Detective Miller said, leaning back with his arms crossed. “His wife gave them to us this morning.”

Vanessa stopped weeping, staring at the detective in stunned disbelief. “His wife?”

“Eleanor Whitmore spent the last six years as the managing trustee of the Vance Foundation,” Jenkins explained with evident satisfaction. “She’s not just a housewife, Miss Price. She holds a Master’s degree in Forensic Accounting from Columbia. She knew about your embezzlement before Grant did. She was just waiting for him to prove his complete lack of character before she pulled the pin on the grenade.”

Vanessa collapsed back into her metal chair, her hands trembling uncontrollably. She had thought Eleanor was a ghost in the background, a silent woman who arranged flowers while she took over the kingdom.