“You had no legal right to touch Derek’s private files,” she said, the syrup gone from her voice in an instant.

“You had him forge my signature on a voluntary surrender of parental rights,” I said.

“Somebody had to step in and secure that child’s future,” Patricia said, her voice dropping to a hard, gravelly rasp.

“You’ve been five thousand miles away for six months.

Derek couldn’t manage alone, and you certainly weren’t here to lift a finger.”

“She’s my daughter,” I said.

“A judge will look at who has actually been here for her,” Patricia said.