“No.” The answer came too quickly, then broke. “Not anymore. Not since the hearing.”

“What hearing?”

Her eyes flicked to the door and back. “He knows people. He always knows someone. A cousin in the precinct. A lawyer who owes him favors. A judge he drinks with.

I don’t know how he found me here.”

I looked at the message again. Police are in the lobby asking for Anna Silva and two children. Not asking to speak with me. Not reporting a disturbance.

Not requesting cooperation. Asking for her.

I’d spent most of my adult life reading between lines written by men who thought money made them invisible. This message had a shape. A weight. Someone had come to collect something, and assumed I would simply hand it over.

“Is there a warrant?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Is there an order giving him the children?”

“No,” she whispered. “I have the papers. Somewhere in my bag.”

I crossed to the door and locked it, then slid the chain into place. Anna stared as if I’d done something impossible.