As morning light filtered through the apartment, my resolve hardened. This was no longer just a family affair; it was a battle for Ethan’s future, for his dignity, for justice. I could feel my instincts—the ones honed from years of chasing down criminals and untangling webs of deceit—kicking into high gear.
I started making calls. First to the detective who took over my desk when I retired. He owed me enough favors to start digging into Chelsea, to check hospital records and cross-reference dates and times she’d given the police. I knew that if she was lying about this, there’d be other lies—breadcrumbs she left behind without thinking anyone would follow.
Then to the private investigator in D.C. She was a genius at peeling apart the facades people built around themselves. If there was dirt on Chelsea, she’d find it. I imagined the shock on her face when she realized someone was scrutinizing her life as meticulously as she’d tried to ruin my grandson’s.
