The chair hit my shoulder before I even understood what my mother-in-law was doing.

Cook County Women’s Detention Center smelled of floor wax and stale air.

Patricia Hayes sat across from me behind a scratched plastic barrier. She was wearing a faded jumpsuit, her gray hair unwashed and messy, looking fifteen years older than she had three days ago when she swung a wooden chair at my head.

She stared at my arm sling with a mixture of bitterness and fear.

"You put me in here, Claire," Patricia spat, her voice trembling with rage. "After everything my family did for you. You dragged my name through the mud."

"Your family took eight thousand dollars a month from me while you hit me with furniture," I said coldly, sitting down. "You forged my signature to steal my car. You helped your son launder money for an illegal gambling ring."

"Ethan is my son!" she screamed softly, leaning against the divider. "He deserved a good life! You were always so arrogant with your tech job, your fancy title, your expensive car! You made him feel small!"

"Ethan made himself small when he decided to become a criminal," I replied. "I didn't come here to argue with you, Patricia. Harrison Blake came to my house today."

Patricia’s face went dead white. All the anger evaporated from her eyes instantly.

"Harrison... Blake?" she whispered.

"He threatened to put a lien on my house for four hundred thousand dollars," I said. "He said Ethan owed money to people who don't care about legal proceedings. Who is behind Aegis Sports, Patricia?"

Patricia began to shake. She crossed her arms over her jumpsuit, looking around the room as if the walls had ears. "You don't know what you're doing, Claire. You need to leave town. Sell the house, give them the money, and run."

"I am not running from anyone," I said firmly. "I paid for that house. I earned every dollar I have. Tell me who Ethan was working for, or I will instruct my lawyer to push for the maximum sentence on your assault charges. You will spend the next seven years in a state prison."

Patricia buried her face in her wrinkled hands. A low sob escaped her chest.

"It’s Julian Vance," she whimpered.

I froze. "Julian Vance? The real estate developer?"

"He owns the country club," Patricia sobbed. "He built the entire gambling ring to fund his commercial developments in the East District. Ethan was just his regional manager. Julian set up the offshore accounts. Julian was the one who told Ethan to get four hundred thousand dollars out of your equity because Julian’s construction firm is going bankrupt!"

My mind raced. Julian Vance was one of the most powerful men in the city. He sponsored charity galas, sat on municipal boards, and donated millions to local political campaigns.

"And Harrison Blake?" I asked.

"Blake is Julian’s personal fixer," Patricia whispered, looking up with red-rimmed eyes. "He makes problems disappear. If Julian realizes you have the ledgers from the garage safe, he won't just try to take your house, Claire. He’ll make sure you never testify in court."

"Where are the rest of the ledgers?" I demanded. "The original ones. The hard copies."

Patricia looked at me for a long moment, realization dawning on her face. "Ethan kept a safety deposit box at the First Commercial Bank on 5th Street. Key number 412. The backup drive is in there."

"Whose name is on the box?"

"Mine," Patricia said softly. "And Ethan’s."

I stood up, adjusting my sling.

"Claire, wait!" Patricia pleaded, her fingers pressing against the plastic divider. "If I give you the authorization code for the bank box... will you talk to the prosecutor? Will you ask them to drop the felony assault down to a misdemeanor? I can't die in prison!"

I looked down at the woman who had stood in my garage and watched her son laugh while she fractured my wrist.