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 gave him a strong hug. He smelled of soap and fear, but also of courage.

“Let’s go,” Linda said from the doorway. “It’s time.”

We went down to Linda’s car. I sat in the back seat with my phone in my hands, the screen showing what Ethan’s cameras saw. Linda drove in silence, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

We arrived at the Upper East Side. Rob’s house was large, two stories with a front yard and an electric gate. He had bought it with the life insurance money from his first wife—a house that should have been full of happy memories. Now it was a prison.

Ethan got out of the car. We watched him walk toward the front door. On my phone, the image moved with every step he took. He rang the bell.

The door opened. And there was Chelsea.