The clock on my nightstand read 5:02 AM. Thanksgiving morning. My kitchen still smelled like pumpkin pie, black coffee, and the cinnamon I had spilled beside the stove.

By 3:00 PM on Thanksgiving afternoon, the hospital room at St. Jude’s was quiet and peaceful.

Chloe was sitting up in bed, eating a warm meal the hospital staff had prepared for her. Her eye swelling had begun to recede under treatment, and her color was returning. Sitting beside her was ADA Sarah Jenkins, going over the formal charges that had been filed against Marcus, Sylvia, and Arthur Vance.

When I walked into the room carrying a fresh cup of coffee, Chloe looked up at me, her eyes shining with tears of relief.

“Mom...” she said softly. “Detective Miller told me what happened at the house.”

I sat down on the edge of her bed, taking her hand gently. “It’s over, sweetie. They will never step foot near you ever again.”

“Miller said you brought down Arthur Vance’s entire company too,” Chloe said, a faint, proud smile appearing on her face. “I had no idea you still had those contacts.”

“A prosecutor never really retires, Chloe,” I replied with a subtle smile. “We just wait for the right case.”

Sarah Jenkins cleared her throat, tapping her laptop screen. “Eleanor, Chloe, here is where we stand legally. Marcus and Sylvia are currently being held without bail at the county correctional facility. Because of the federal financial charges overlapping with the violent felonies, the grand jury is being convened on Monday morning.”

“What about their defense lawyers?” I asked.

“Marcus’s firm hired a top-tier criminal defense attorney named Richard Sterling—no relation, but one of the highest-paid trial lawyers in the state,” Sarah warned. “He’s already filing motions to claim that Chloe’s injuries were self-inflicted during a psychological episode, and that the financial records were obtained through an illegal search.”

I let out a low, cold laugh. “Richard Sterling? I beat him in three separate extortion trials back in 2012. He uses the same predictable playbook every time—attack the victim’s mental stability and challenge the chain of custody.”

I turned to Sarah Jenkins. “Tell Richard Sterling that if he attempts to slander my daughter’s mental health in open court, I will personally submit thirty years of Marcus’s hidden tax records into the public court record, which will expose three of his other corporate clients to federal indictment.”

Sarah blinked, amazed. “You have those records?”

“I spent thirty minutes in Marcus’s home office before the police arrived,” I revealed with a quiet wink. “A good prosecutor always collects backup evidence.”