MY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW DRAGGED MY 3-YEAR-OLD GRANDDAUGHTER ACROSS THE FLOOR—THEN I WALKED IN.

I called back eleven times. The number was disconnected by the third attempt.

"It sounded like Julian," I told Detective Mara Quinn when she arrived at the hospital. "But I need you to trace it, not take my word for it."

Quinn had the tired eyes of a woman who'd met too many confident liars. I liked her immediately.

"I'll request the call records," she said. "For now, keep your granddaughter somewhere safe. And do not confront suspects on your own."

"I have a reputation for doing the opposite."

"Then surprise me."

By morning, every news site in the city carried a photograph of me holding Maya at the gala. Vanessa had supplied the caption: AGING BILLIONAIRE SEIZES CHILD DURING MENTAL HEALTH CRISIS.

She claimed I'd escaped a Swiss treatment facility and stormed her own family's celebration. One commentator suggested my return was an inheritance grab.

I almost threw my tablet across the room. Instead, I put it down.

Naomi arrived with a stack of papers. "Your Swiss doctor has told the court you suffer from episodes of confusion."

"He saw me twice and prescribed something that made me unable to stay awake."

"We need an independent evaluation and the clinic records."

"Arrange it."

Then Theo showed me footage from the estate's entrance cameras. The night before the gala, a delivery van had parked at the service gates. A man emerged wearing the Swift inner guard's hawk pin.

He carried himself exactly as Julian did: left shoulder slightly lower, one hand close to his ribs.

"Can you identify him?" I asked.

"Not from this angle. The camera went dark twelve seconds later."

The final frame showed the man looking directly up at the lens.