Derek scoffed. “Careful. We don’t let grease monkeys handle family assets.”

I lowered my eyes, not because I was afraid, but because the tiny camera hidden inside Lily’s stuffed rabbit was pointed directly toward Derek’s chair.

Three months earlier, after Derek shoved me hard enough to send me into a pantry door, I stopped crying and started collecting evidence.

Photographs. Medical records. Audio recordings. Financial documents. Threats. Messages from his father about “keeping the girl quiet.” Emails from their attorney offering money if I signed away custody before the baby was even born.

Every piece of evidence had already been copied and delivered to a domestic violence advocate, Detective Alvarez, and a judge who trusted Uncle Ray more than the powerful Vale family.

Uncle Ray calmly closed the curtains around my bed.

Then he removed his hearing aids and placed them carefully onto the tray beside me.

“Close your eyes, kiddo,” he said softly.

Across the room, Derek’s father noticed the faded military tattoo on Ray’s forearm.

The color drained from his face instantly.

Then, without warning, he turned toward the trash can and vomited.

Part 2