TWO POLICE OFFICERS SHAVED MY HEAD—THEN DISCOVERED I WAS THE JUDGE ASSIGNED TO THEIR CASE.

Camille ducked away so quickly her shoulder struck a metal cart.

The wheels squealed.

“Open that door,” Voss ordered.

Pruitt left me on the floor and lunged toward the hallway. I heard Camille’s sneakers slap the tiles, then the heavy door slam.

“Get back here!”

Voss seized my chin.

“Was that your friend?”

“I don’t know who was out there.”

“Liar.”

He reached for his radio. Before he pressed the button, I saw a folded piece of paper protruding from his breast pocket. My surname had been written across it in block letters.

ELLISON.

My stomach dropped.

This was no misunderstanding about a credential.

From the hall came a crash, a gasp, and Pruitt’s voice.

“Found her!”

Camille cried out. Voss hurried away, leaving me cuffed beside the clippers. I rolled onto my side and forced myself upright, using the wall. Blood warmed a narrow scratch at my hairline.

I could hear Camille pleading.

“It’s just my phone. Please don’t break it.”

Something plastic snapped.

Then silence.

I looked at the tiny emergency call button beside the utility sink. Too high to reach with my bound hands. I kicked the metal cabinet beneath it, once, twice, until it rattled against the wall.

A distant voice shouted, “What’s going on down there?”

I recognized Deputy U.S. Marshal Elena Brooks.

“Help!” I screamed.

Voss returned, breathless. He shoved me hard against the cabinet.

“You’ve made this worse.”

“What did you do to Camille?”

He gave me a thin smile.

“You should be more worried about your mother.”

I went cold.

Because my mother had received a strange phone call that morning—and I had told no one about it.