I went to pick up my daughter’s designer bag—and the repairman grabbed my wrist, whispering, “Get the kids out of town tonight,” before he showed me what was sewn inside.

And I had less than 48 hours before the Thursday night delivery.

I had to call Ryan. I had to save Grace and Liam. But first, I had to accept that my daughter had become a monster.

My fingers fumbled with the phone as I sat in my car outside Tony’s shop. The evidence bag lay on the passenger seat like a bomb. I had to call Ryan, my son-in-law, the father of those circled children.

But how do you tell someone their wife is selling your children?

Ryan answered on the third ring. I could hear restaurant noise in the background. Laughter. The clink of glasses.

Hey, Mom. What’s up? I’m about to head into dinner with a client here in Denver.

His voice sounded so light, so easy, I almost couldn’t speak.

Ryan, you need to listen very carefully. My voice cracked. Something is very wrong with Tamson.

Silence. The background music faded. He was stepping outside.

Mom, what are you talking about? Tamson’s at a conference in Seattle until tomorrow night.

That’s what I thought, too. Ryan, I just picked up her bag from Tony’s repair shop. He found something hidden inside. I’m sending you photos right now.

I pulled up our encrypted messaging app and photographed the evidence spread across my lap. My thumb hovered over the send button. Once I did this, there would be no going back. I pressed send.

The call came back immediately.

Mom, what the hell is this?

Tony found them in a hidden pocket. A bank receipt for $350,000 signed by someone named S. Ivonov and photos, pictures of Grace and Liam with red circles drawn around their faces, angry circles like they’re being marked.

I forced myself to keep going.

There’s also a note. It says package ready and gives coordinates and a delivery time 10:00 Thursday night. Ryan, I recognize the handwriting. It’s Tamson’s.