Chapter 4
“You have no idea what you’re walking into.”
I stepped toward him.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to make him move back without realizing he had done it.
“I know exactly what I’m walking into.”
For the first time, Brandon Prescott’s smile flickered.
A nurse appeared at the station and watched us.
Brandon noticed her.
His expression changed instantly, polished and harmless.
“Get some rest, Colonel,” he said. “You look tired.”
“I am,” I said. “That should worry you.”
He walked away.
At 1:17 a.m., the first lawyer arrived.
Not for Emily.
For the Prescotts.
A tall man in a charcoal suit introduced himself as Charles Venn, counsel for Prescott Holdings. He carried no briefcase. Men like him did not need props. His presence was the threat.
He requested a private conversation.
I declined.
He smiled as if I had amused him.
“Colonel Hart, I respect your service. Truly. But this situation can spiral in ways that harm your daughter more than anyone else.”
“She was already harmed.”
“I’m referring to public scrutiny. Media attention. Depositions. Questions about her mental health. Her marriage. Her behavior.”
I stared at him.
He continued gently, like a doctor explaining a terminal diagnosis.
“Mrs. Prescott is prepared to offer Emily a generous private settlement, immediate separation from Ethan, and a nondisclosure agreement. No charges. No statements. No scandal.”
“How generous?”
He paused, mistaking the question for interest.
“Two million dollars.”
Behind him, I saw Margaret near the elevators, watching.
I looked back at Charles Venn.
“My daughter called me tonight because she believed she might die. Your clients’ opening offer is money and silence?”
His smile thinned.
“You should consider the alternative.”
“I am.”
“And?”
“The alternative is evidence.”
Something changed in his face.
Just a flicker.
But I saw it.
He recovered quickly. “Evidence of what?”
“That’s the question keeping your clients awake.”
For the first time, he stopped smiling.
I walked past him and returned to Emily’s room.
Inside, my daughter had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Her face was turned toward the window. The hospital blanket covered her shoulders. A faint bruise darkened along her cheekbone beneath the fluorescent light.
I sat beside her until dawn.
At 5:42 a.m., Captain Jonah Miles arrived.
Retired CID, gray-haired, sharp-eyed, with a limp he had earned in Kandahar and a mind that missed nothing.
He entered the room quietly, carrying coffee.
“Victoria,” he said.
“Jonah.”
His eyes moved to Emily. His expression softened.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
He handed me a cup. “Dana said you need help.”
“I need facts.”
“That I can do.”
We stepped into the hallway.
I gave him the outline. He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he asked only one question.
“Do they know Emily still has the prepaid phone?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
May you like
“Good. Don’t let anyone touch it except law enforcement or a forensic examiner.”
“She used it to call me.”
