I was washing sweet potato off my hands when I heard Khloe cry.

By mid-January, the fallout from the deposition was catastrophic for the Miller family.

The federal prosecutor’s office officially unsealed an eight-count indictment against Wanda Miller and Mason Miller for bank fraud, conspiracy to commit wire fraud, and aggravated identity theft.

Because the financial fraud crossed state lines—the shell companies Wanda utilized had bank registrations in Delaware and funds routed through New York—the feds didn't mess around.

Federal marshals arrived at Mason’s corporate office on a Tuesday morning. He was escorted out through the glass lobby of his firm in front of seventy of his colleagues, his security badge revoked and his personal computer seized. His six-figure salary was gone in a single afternoon.

Meanwhile, Wanda’s antique design business imploded.

Once the news hit the local papers that she was being investigated for laundering counterfeit heirlooms and fencing estate-sale assets without licenses, her wealthy clients fled like rats from a sinking ship. Three separate estate executors filed civil lawsuits against her for conversion and theft.

She was forced to put her beloved Meadow Lane mansion on the market at a fire-sale price just to cover her mounting legal retainers.

One afternoon, as I was loading groceries into my car outside the local supermarket, a raspy voice called my name.

"Shannon."

I turned around, keeping my car door between myself and the speaker.

It was Wanda.

She looked unrecognizable. The designer clothes were gone, replaced by an ill-fitting trench coat. Her silver hair was unwashed, pulled back into a hasty clip, and her eyes were sunken with dark purple rings. She looked like an old, broken woman.

"Wanda," I said, my hand instinctively tapping the emergency 911 shortcut on my phone. "You are violating the protective order. Step back fifty feet or you will be remanded without bail."

Wanda didn't step forward, but her hands trembled at her sides. "Shannon... please. Just listen to me for one minute."

"You have thirty seconds before the police are dispatched."

"Tell Amanda to drop the federal wire fraud affidavit," Wanda begged, her voice cracking in a pathetic, desperate whine. "They’re talking about five to seven years in federal prison, Shannon. I’m seventy-one years old! I won't survive a federal penitentiary! I will give you everything. I will sign over the Meadow Lane equity. I will give you whatever you want. Just tell the prosecutor it was a family accounting mistake!"

I looked at the woman who had pinned my daughter to the floorboards.

I remembered the sound of that slap. I remembered Khloe’s terrified, breathless wails. I remembered Wanda smoothing her slacks and asking if we could eat dinner because the turkey was getting cold.

"Do you remember what you said to me on Christmas Eve, Wanda?" I asked softly.

Wanda blinked, her lips quivering. "Shannon, I—"

"'Girls are nothing but noise if you don't break them early,'" I quoted, every word like cold iron. "You tried to break my daughter. And when you couldn't do that, you tried to break me. But you forgot one thing."

"What?" she wept.

"I’m not made of glass like your antique gravy boat," I said. "I don't break."