The child services office stank—like damp folders that’d been locked in metal drawers too long, sour, heavy, mixed with that burnt toner stink from the printer. The lights overhead kept buzzing, flicker-flicker, one bulb threatening to die. A cracked vent spit out salty air, not enough to clear the smell. Camille sat stiff in that awful plastic chair, her back locked, shoulders aching. Her palms glued to the armrest, sweaty, her heart slamming too hard, like it was gonna jump out.

Ms. Holt’s voicemail kept looping in her skull. She’s questioning Camille’s guardianship. And the text—God, that text. Ellie’s ours unless you pay.

Ellie was safe—she knew it, she’d told...