He was weaving the noose around my neck, strand by strand. He was going to take my daughter. He was going to paint me as the abuser, the lunatic, and he—the saint who endured it all.

I gripped the bars of the cell. “He’s lying!” I screamed, but it came out as a desperate, shrill cry that only confirmed his story. “Check his hands! Check Emily!”

“Quiet down, Sarah,” the booking officer said tiredly. “Your lawyer will be here in the morning.”

Hope was a dying ember. I slumped against the wall, closing my eyes. I had failed. I had finally fought back, and I had lost everything.

It was then that the door to the precinct swung open. A tall, older man in a rumpled trench coat walked in, carrying a stack of files. He walked with a slight limp, his face etched with the deep lines of a man who had seen too much death. It was Dr. Thomas Evans, the city’s Chief Medical Examiner. He was there to drop off a report on a homicide from the previous night.