During a 3 A.M. apartment fire, my husband locked me inside with our sick 4-year-old so he could carry out his mother and her $5,000 mink coat.

The law office of Sarah Vance did not look like the mahogany-paneled sanctuaries of old-money Manhattan attorneys. It was located in a sleek, minimalist loft in Brooklyn, filled with natural light, steel desks, and towering stacks of case files.

Sarah Vance had the same piercing hazel eyes as her brother Marcus, but her edges were razor-sharp. She had already read the preliminary fire incident report and Detective Miller’s notes by the time Marcus and I sat down across from her.

"Derek Mercer is an idiot," Sarah said without looking up from her tablet. "A greedy, arrogant, mommy-dependent idiot. Which makes him extremely dangerous, Clara, because stupid men with financial desperation do reckless things."

"He thinks he holds all the cards," I said. "He emptied our joint checking account this morning. I tried to buy Lily some baby wash and clean clothes at the pharmacy near the hospital, and the card was declined. He transferred eighty-four thousand dollars to an offshore business account under Lorraine’s name at eight-fifteen A.M."

Sarah gave a predatory smile. "Good. Let him dig his own grave."

"Good?" I asked, bewildered. "Sarah, I literally have forty-two dollars in cash in my purse."

"Derek just violated the automatic statutory restraining order on marital assets that takes effect the moment a domestic incident report is filed with the NYPD," Sarah explained, tapping her keyboard rapidly. "Judges despise when one party tries to financially starve a mother and a hospitalized child. He thinks he’s playing chess. He’s playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded cylinder."

She turned the monitor toward me.

"First thing: I’m filing an emergency ex-parte motion for exclusive custody, an immediate freeze on all domestic and offshore accounts linked to Lorraine Mercer’s LLC, and an order of protection barring Derek and his mother from coming within five hundred feet of you or Lily."

"What about the life insurance policy?" I asked.

"I’ve already subpoenaed the underwriting documents from Lorraine’s brokerage," Sarah said. "If Lorraine forged your signature on that contingent beneficiary clause, she’s looking at federal wire fraud and conspiracy to commit insurance fraud. But we need more than paperwork, Clara. We need leverage. Lorraine is the puppet master here. Derek doesn't have the spine to plan this alone."

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was an unknown number. I hesitated, then pressed speakerphone.

"Clara?" Lorraine’s honeyed, venomous voice drifted into the sleek Brooklyn office.

Sarah held up a finger, silently hitting a button on her desk that routed the audio into her computer’s digital recording software.

"What do you want, Lorraine?" I answered coldly.

"Darling, let’s not be dramatic," Lorraine sighed. "Derek is terribly stressed. Men are fragile creatures during crises, you know that. We need to handle this as a family. I’m at the Carlyle Hotel having lunch. Why don't you bring Lily and join me? We can discuss an amicable living arrangement. Derek is willing to give you a very generous monthly allowance... provided you drop this absurd arson investigation nonsense."

"Lily is in the hospital, Lorraine. She has toxic soot in her lungs."

"Children bounce back, dear," Lorraine said dismissively. "What doesn't bounce back is Derek’s career if these slanderous police inquiries continue. Come to the Carlyle at one. Let’s talk like civilized women. Or... Derek files the emergency custody petition we drafted. We’ll show the court photos of you standing on that balcony looking completely unhinged."

"I'll see you at one," I said, and ended the call.