Mom, please come get me… my husband’s family hurt me. new

Charlotte’s federal holding facility was a far cry from the Prescott family’s country club. The walls were cinderblock, the air smelled of bleach and stale sweat, and the fluorescent lights hummed with a headache-inducing buzz.

Ethan sat at a bolted-down metal table in Interview Room 3. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit that was two sizes too big. He hadn't stopped shaking for six hours.

The heavy metal door clicked and swung open. Ethan looked up, expecting his high-priced defense attorney.

Instead, I walked in.

I was back in my Army uniform. The ribbons, the brass, the silver eagles on my shoulders—they gleamed under the harsh lighting. I didn't say a word. I pulled out the metal chair opposite him, sat down, and folded my hands on the table.

Ethan scrambled backward, his chair scraping loudly against the concrete. "You... you can't be in here! I know my rights! Guard! Guard!"

"The guards are on a fifteen-minute coffee break," I said smoothly. "And since the prosecuting U.S. Attorney happens to be a former JAG officer who served under my command in Iraq, I was granted a brief, off-the-record visit."

Ethan swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the small room like a trapped rat. "What do you want? You took our money. You destroyed my family. What more do you want?!"

"I want to explain your future to you, Ethan," I said, leaning forward slightly. "Right now, the federal prosecutors are offering your mother a deal. If she pleads guilty to the RICO charges, she gets twenty years. If she goes to trial, she gets forty. Brandon is already drafting a proffer agreement to flip on her."

Ethan’s jaw dropped. "Brandon... Brandon is testifying against Mother?"

"There is no loyalty among cowards," I replied coldly. "Which brings us to you. You are a named officer in Prescott Enterprises. You signed the shell company documents. But that’s federal court. That’s white-collar crime. I'm here about the state charges."

I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a manila envelope. I tossed it onto the table. It slid across the metal surface, stopping right in front of him.

"Open it."

With trembling fingers, Ethan opened the clasp and pulled out the photographs. They were high-resolution medical images of Emily’s bruises. The contusions on her arms. The lacerations on her scalp where he had pulled her hair. Accompanying the photos were sworn affidavits from the two previous women he had abused, stating that Margaret Prescott had forced them to sign NDAs under threat of death.

"Extortion. Witness tampering. Felony domestic battery," I listed off calmly. "These are the state charges my daughter filed against you this morning. The NDAs your mother forced those girls to sign are voided because they were used to conceal a felony."

Ethan began to hyperventilate. "I... I can fix this. I can go to rehab. Anger management. Please, Colonel. I'm begging you. I wouldn't survive in a state penitentiary. Look at me!"

"I am looking at you," I said, my voice devoid of any pity. "I am looking at a weak, pathetic man who thought he could beat a woman into submission because his mommy had a fat checkbook. You thought my daughter was alone. You thought she had no backup."

I stood up, the legs of my chair screeching against the floor.