At six minutes past midnight on Christmas morning, I carried the phone into the dark nursery, where Noah was asleep under his blue cotton blanket next to Lily.

I sat in the wooden rocking chair between the two white cribs and dialed the private home number of Daniel Harris, the sixty-two-year-old senior managing partner at Harris and Croft Law who had handled my late mother’s estate.

The phone rang four times in the quiet room before a deep, deliberate voice answered.

“Lauren,” Daniel said, his voice slow and measured over the speaker.

“Cole is at the Plaza Hotel right now with Sierra Vaughn,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and steady.