They sat at his kitchen table until nearly two in the morning.
Emmett read every page twice. He plugged in the USB drive. He adjusted his glasses when he reached the text about Colleen signing whatever Grant put in front of her, then removed them and rubbed his eyes.
“He was planning this before the delivery,” he said quietly. “At least part of it.”
Dorothy wrapped both hands around a cup of tea she had not touched. “Can you help me?”
Emmett looked up sharply. “You really need to ask?”
“I need to hear you say it.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Yes. I can help you.”
“Can we stop him from taking the babies?”
“Yes.”
“Can we prove what he did?”
Emmett glanced at the evidence spread across the table. “Maybe not all at once. But enough to bring him into court and strip the mask off.”
Dorothy swallowed. “Then do it.”
For the next week, Dorothy lived in two worlds.
In one, she returned to Birchwood Lane each morning with casseroles from church women and folded towels and the weary gentleness expected of a grieving mother. She fed Margot and sang to Theodore and kissed Bridget’s forehead. She thanked the temporary nurse. She let Laurel’s little barbs slide off her as if she didn’t hear them.