And finally, a call to an old prosecutor friend. She had a reputation for being tough, fair, and relentless when it came to cases involving minors. I knew she’d look at Ethan’s evidence with a clear, compassionate eye.

Ethan sat at the kitchen table, a blanket around his shoulders, cradling the mug of cocoa like it was a lifeline. “What if it doesn’t work, Grandma?”

“It will work,” I said, with more certainty than I felt. But I had to be strong for him. I couldn’t let him see the cracks. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll fight it together.”

As the day progressed, more pieces started falling into place. The detective called back with news of Chelsea’s discrepancies in her story—unaccounted hours and dubious business trips. The investigator sent over files containing a hidden past Chelsea didn’t want anyone to know: a former life in another city, another state, under a different name.

By evening, I had a clear picture. It wasn’t just about proving Ethan’s innocence; it was about dismantling a narrative spun by someone who thought they were untouchable. A narrative that had already started to fray at the edges.

I sat with Ethan that night, talking through the strategy, reassuring him that this wasn’t just about rescuing him from a terrible situation but about restoring his faith in his father, in himself, in the justice system.

“Will Dad believe me now?” he asked, his voice small, vulnerable.

“I think he’ll have no choice but to see the truth,” I replied. And I hoped that, in the midst of this chaos, my son would find clarity and stand by his own son.

As I tucked Ethan into the spare bed, I felt the weight of what lay ahead. It was a familiar weight, one I carried for all those years serving the city. But now, it was personal. This was about family, about protecting the innocent and bringing the truth to light.

Commander Stone was on the case, and she wouldn’t stop until justice was served.