I never expected three little triplets pointing at my tattoo to unlock an eight-year-old secret I thought was buried forever.

I hired a private investigator three days later.

His name was Frank. He was an older guy, ex-cop, with a face like a roadmap and eyes that missed nothing. I met him in a dive bar in Queens, far from the world of the Sterlings.

"I don't have much money," I told him, sliding what savings I had across the table. "But I'll pay you every cent I can earn."

Frank looked at the cash, then at me. He didn't touch the money.

"What's this about?"

I told him everything. Seattle. The tattoo. The triplets in the park. Camila's fear at the Plaza. Richard Sterling's reputation.

Frank listened without interrupting, sipping his beer. When I finished, he was quiet for a long time.

"Sterling's dangerous," he said finally. "You know that, right?"

"I know."

"He's got money. Power. Friends in high places. People who cross him tend to regret it."

"I don't care." My voice was steady. I'd had three days to think about it, to let the fear settle and then harden into resolve. "Those girls might be my daughters. Their mother is scared for her life. I'm not walking away."

Frank studied me for another long moment. Then he reached across the table and took the cash.

"Half up front," he said. "Half when I've got something solid. And I'm not cheap. You'll be working extra shifts for a while."

"I don't care."

He nodded, pulling out a notebook. "Give me everything you remember about Seattle. The bar. The tattoo parlor. Anything she said about her family, her life before. Every detail, no matter how small it seems."

I talked for two hours.

Over the next two weeks, Frank worked. I worked too, picking up every extra shift I could get, my body exhausted but my mind never resting.

Frank called me with updates every few days.

"Camila Sterling rarely leaves the estate," he told me one evening. "Home-schooled the girls until this year. Nanny's been with them since the girls were babies. Name's Margaret. Good woman, from what I can tell. Devoted to the kids."

"She looked scared in the park," I said.

"Probably is. Sterling's got cameras everywhere. Microphones too, from what I hear. The whole estate is a fortress."

Another call, a week later.

"Got something on the marriage. Sterling controls everything. Her money, her phone, who she sees. She's got no credit cards in her own name. No access to the family accounts without his approval. He even approves the guest list for their parties."

My blood boiled.

"Can you get proof?"

"Working on it. Also... talked to a former housekeeper. Left about a year ago. Says Sterling has a temper. Bad one. Throws things. Screams. Says the girls would hide in their closets when he started."

I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white.

"Is there any proof of physical abuse?"

"She says she never saw him hit Camila. But she saw the bruises. Long sleeves in summer. Makeup applied too thick. Once, she saw Camila's arm after Sterling had 'grabbed her too hard.' Fingerprint bruises."

I saw red.

"I'm going to kill him," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

"No, you're not," Frank said sharply. "Because if you do, you'll never see those girls. And Camila will be stuck with him or dead. We do this right. Legal. Clean. We get proof, we get a good lawyer, and we get them out."

He was right. I knew he was right. But it didn't make the rage burn any less hot.

The breakthrough came two days later.

Frank called me, his voice excited.

"She wants to talk to you."

I froze. "Camila?"

"Yeah. Margaret the nanny passed her a message through a friend of a friend. She wants to meet. But it has to be somewhere public, somewhere Sterling wouldn't think to look. And it has to be tomorrow. He's flying to London for a business trip. Twenty-four hours, that's all we've got."