My grandson called me from the police station at 2:47 a.m., choking back tears: “Grandma, my stepmother says I made her fall and Dad believes every word she says, he doesn’t believe me,” but when I arrived the officer saw me, froze, went pale and whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know who you were,” and from that moment my family was forced to face the truth.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair.

“Whatever we find tomorrow, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone, Ethan. And you never will be—as long as I’m alive.”

“I love you, Grandma.”

“I love you too, my boy. More than words can say.”

He closed his eyes and eventually fell asleep. I stayed there a little longer, watching him breathe peacefully. I thought about all the dangers he would face the next day, all the things that could go wrong.

But I also thought about something else. That Chelsea had underestimated this family. She had underestimated a brave boy who refused to be another victim. And she had underestimated a grandmother who had hunted criminals all her life.

Tomorrow the serpent would show its fangs. But we already had the antidote.

The next day, Ethan entered that house with the cameras rolling. What we recorded that afternoon chilled our blood, and it gave us the weapon we needed to destroy Chelsea.