The moment I stepped through the front door, I knew something was terribly wrong. I heard Emma first. Not the soft whimper I was used to. Not the sound of a baby who wanted a bottle or a cuddle.

By dawn, the Federal Bureau of Investigation joined forces with the Chicago Police Department.

Special Agent David Vance took charge of the federal financial crimes aspect of the case. "We have enough to raid Mercer's penthouse, but we need to ensure he doesn't destroy the offshore encryption keys before we secure the funds."

"Use Vanessa," I said, my voice hardening with an authority born of absolute protective fury. "She doesn't know we've cracked her phone yet."

At 7:00 AM, in the interrogation room of the 12th Precinct, Detective Morales and Agent Vance sat across from Vanessa.

They laid out the forged trust documents, the offshore insurance policies, and the encrypted messages on the steel table.

"Your game is over, Vanessa," Agent Vance said. "We have Gregory Mercer's name, his bank routing numbers, and your federal conspiracy charges. In Illinois, conspiracy to commit murder of a minor carry a life sentence with zero possibility of parole."

Vanessa’s hands began to shake violently. The arrogant sneer she had maintained during booking vanished into thin air.

"There is one way you avoid spending the rest of your natural life in a supermax prison," Vance continued. "You wear a wire. You call Mercer to confirm the handover of the trust documents at his downtown office."

"He'll kill me," Vanessa wept, clutching her face. "He has connections in the city!"