I looked at Sophie.
She held Julian against her chest. He was sleeping peacefully for the first time in days.
“Nothing,” she said.
So the house was emptied of flowers.
For the first time since my mother moved in, the air became clean.
Penelope was released on bail forty-eight hours later.
Of course she was.
Women like my mother always know which doors open when money knocks.
The restraining order kept her away from Sophie, Julian, and our home. Gabriel assured me the case against her was strong.
But strength in law is not the same as safety in life.
On the third night, a courier arrived at the hospital with a white box tied in black ribbon.
No sender listed.
Inside was a silver baby rattle.
An old one.
Sterlington family silver, engraved with my initials from infancy.
Beneath it lay a note written in my mother’s elegant hand.
You cannot erase blood.
Sophie read it once.
Then she handed it to me.
“She’s not done,” she said.
No fear in her voice this time.
Only recognition.
“No,” I said. “She isn’t.”
Gabriel had the box collected for evidence.
But something about the rattle stayed with me.
That night, while Sophie and Julian slept, I drove to my mother’s townhouse with two security men and a locksmith. The restraining order barred her from us, not me from entering a property still held under a family trust I controlled.
Gabriel hated the idea.
“Do not go looking for drama,” he warned.
“I’m looking for documents.”
