I sat back on my heels, the breath leaving my lungs in a rush. My mind raced through the implications, connecting dots like neurons firing in a panic response. Bernice Wright had planted major felony quantities of meth in my house. If the police found this during a random check—a “wellness visit” hinted at by an anonymous tip—my life was over.

Emma’s life was over. I’d lose custody permanently. I would become a felon. This wasn’t just manipulation; this was a coup d’état. This was attempted murder of everything I had left.

But Emma had warned me. My brave, terrified seven-year-old daughter had risked the wrath of the Matriarch to save her father.

Think, Thomas. Think like the scientist you are.

Panic is a chemical reaction. Adrenaline. Cortisol. It clouds judgment. I forced myself to breathe, to lower my heart rate. I pulled out my phone, my hands steadier now as the shock gave way to a cold, hard calculation.

I didn’t touch the bag again. Instead, I photographed it from multiple angles. I ensured the timestamps were visible. I photographed the underside of my bed frame, catching the dust patterns that clearly showed where the bag had been dragged and pushed. I documented the lack of forced entry at the windows. I documented everything.

Then, I did the one thing Bernice Wright never expected me to do.