A primal wave of nausea and rage slammed into me. The room tilted. It was a calculated kill shot. They knew the conservatorship hinged on my emotional instability.

Vanessa was wearing my dead son’s jewelry to provoke me — to make me scream, to make me lunge at her in front of the bailiffs, proving every lie in my medical file.

Grant’s hand tightened on my arm. He was waiting for the explosion.

I closed my eyes. I felt the fault line crack open through my chest. Then the cold, analytical part of my brain — the architect, the coder — took over.

I visualized the code. I visualized the trap.

I opened my eyes, looked directly at the necklace, then up into Vanessa’s eyes. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I smiled — a thin, terrifyingly vacant smile.