Chapter 26
The process server's eyes went wide when Cory flung open the door—in full police chief mode despite his civilian clothes
"I'm just here to serve papers," the man stammered, thrusting the manila folder through the barely opened door. "Isabella Reyes?"
"That's me." She kept her voice flat, emotionless.
"You've been served." He was already backing away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach his car—a beater Honda that had seen better decades.
The moment his taillights disappeared down the access road, Izzy tore at the folder's seal. Her hands shook, making the simple task harder than it should be.
"Not here." Cory plucked the papers from her hands before she could unfold them. "Inside. Secure the door first."
"Cory—"
"Procedures exist for a reason." But his voice was gentle, understanding the desperation eating at her.
She wanted to argue, wanted to rip the papers from his hands and read whatever new torture Andrew had concocted. Instead, she followed him inside, letting him check locks and set alarms while her heart hammered against her ribs.
Finally, mercifully, they were back in the conference room. Cory handed her the papers without a word.
The legal language blurred together at first, her brain refusing to process the words. Then certain phrases jumped out like slaps to the face.
Emergency Motion for Immediate Custody.
Unstable living situation.
Federal investigation.
Cohabitating with unrelated male.
Immediate danger to minor child.
"Tomorrow." The word came out strangled. "He got a hearing scheduled for tomorrow morning."
The papers crumpled in her grip. Some judge who didn't know her, didn't know Chantal, would decide if Andrew could rip her baby away. Andrew, who'd seen his daughter three times in six years. Who'd signed away his rights for the price of a plane ticket from Florida.
"Izzy." Cory's voice seemed to come from very far away. "I'm calling Rachel."
She watched him dial, his movements thoughtful and efficient. Everything she wasn't right now. Her whole body vibrated with the need to do something—punch something, shoot something, anything but stand here helplessly while Andrew tried to steal her daughter.
"Rachel? It's Cory. We need your help." He switched to speaker, setting the phone on the table. "Andrew filed an emergency custody motion. Hearing's tomorrow."
"Send me everything. Now." His sister's voice was all business, no pleasantries. "The motion, any supporting documents, everything."
Izzy fumbled with her phone, hands still shaking as she photographed each page. The accusations blurred together—neglect, endangerment, inappropriate living arrangements. Each lie another knife between her ribs.
"Sent," Cory confirmed.
"I'll review and call you back. Don't panic. Emergency motions have a high bar to clear." Rachel's voice softened slightly. "We'll fight this."
The call ended, leaving them in silence. Izzy stood frozen for maybe ten seconds before the rage took over.
"I need to hit something."
She didn't wait for his response, just headed for the stairs. The gym called to her—specifically the heavy bag that could take whatever she needed to dish out.
The first punch felt good. The second better. By the tenth, her knuckles stung through the wraps, but the pain helped focus the fury into something manageable. She fell into a rhythm—jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Each impact satisfying in a way words couldn't capture.
Andrew's smirking face. BAM.
The FBI freezing her accounts. CRACK.
Her baby in hiding. THUD.
"Your form's dropping." Cory's voice came from behind her.
She spun, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his observations, but stopped. He'd changed into workout clothes and was wrapping his own hands.
"Thought you might want a moving target," he offered.
She almost smiled. "You sure about that, Chief? I'm not feeling particularly controlled right now."
"I'll risk it." He raised the focus mitts. "Besides, hitting pads is better for your hands than destroying that bag."
She threw a testing jab. He absorbed it easily, adjusting his stance.
"Harder," he said. "You're angry. Use it."
She did. For twenty minutes, she poured everything into those strikes while Cory called combinations, keeping her focused on technique instead of fear. When her arms finally felt like overcooked spaghetti, she stopped, breathing hard.
"Better?"
"No." She yanked off the wraps. "But thanks for trying."
He followed her through the weight room to the armory. If she couldn't punch away the anxiety, maybe she could clean it away. She pulled her Glock first.
"That's already clean," Cory observed.
"It can be cleaner."
He didn't argue, just grabbed his own weapon and joined her. They worked in companionable silence—strip, clean, oil, reassemble. The familiar ritual soothed something raw in her chest.
She'd moved on to her backup piece when Cory's phone rang.
"Rachel," he said, accepting the video call.
His sister's face filled the screen. "Okay, I've reviewed everything. The good news is, this is sloppy work. His attorney—if you can call him that—is clearly more used to DUIs than custody battles."
"And the bad news?" Izzy set down the cleaning rod.
"Emergency custody motions can be unpredictable. Depends entirely on the judge." Rachel shuffled papers off-screen. "But I've already filed a response. Given the active threat against Izzy—the car bomb, the investigation—I've argued that any change in custody would put the child in danger."
"Will that work?"
"I also contacted Judge Martinez's clerk. Explained the situation." A small smile crossed Rachel's face. "The judge apparently isn't thrilled about being used as a weapon in what's clearly a bad-faith filing."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he's postponed the hearing pending a full safety evaluation. We've got thirty days."
Thirty days. Not perfect, but breathing room. Izzy sagged against the table.
"This isn't over," Rachel continued. "But now we have time to build our case properly. Document everything. Every threat, every contact, every piece of evidence showing he's being paid to harass you."
"Thank you," Izzy managed around the lump in her throat.
"Family helps family," Rachel said simply. "Get some rest. We'll strategize after you get that mess in Hope Landing cleared up."
After she disconnected, Izzy stood there trying to process the reprieve. Thirty days to prove Andrew was a pawn. Thirty days to solve this whole conspiracy.
"Chinese or pizza?" Cory asked.
She blinked at the subject change. "What?"
"Victory celebration. We just won round one." He pulled up a delivery app. "So Chinese or pizza?"
"Thai," she said, surprising herself. "From that place on Third Street."
An hour later, they sat surrounded by takeout containers, the TV on but ignored. Izzy picked at her pad Thai, appetite still mostly.
"We tackle Reed tomorrow," Cory said between bites of curry. "When we're fresh."
"I'm fresh now."
"You're exhausted and running on adrenaline." He pointed his chopsticks at her. "Reed's been doing this for years. He'll smell desperation a mile away. We need to be sharp, controlled."
She hated that he was right. "Fine. Tomorrow."
"Good. Now pick a movie."
"What?"
"Distraction. Doctor's orders." He grabbed the remote. "What's your comfort watch?"
They spent ten minutes arguing about movies—he liked classics, she preferred action, neither would compromise on rom-coms. Finally, they settled on The Princess Bride, which somehow satisfied both requirements.
"Inconceivable." they said in unison during the clifftop scene, then looked at each other and laughed. It felt good, normal. Like they were just two people watching a movie, not hiding from assassins and custody battles.
Her phone buzzed halfway through. A text from Wilson.
Check your email. Secure link.
She opened it to find a video message. Chantal appeared on screen, beaming in Christmas pajamas that were two sizes too big.
"Hi Mommy. Abuela and I are having fun. Mr. Wilson taught me to tie special knots and Abuela's teaching me to make tamales. I miss you but I'm being very brave. Are my angel wings okay? The pageant's in six sleeps. I've been practicing my song. Love you."
The video ended. Izzy stared at the black screen, tears burning her eyes.
"Six days," she whispered.
"We'll solve this—"
"No." She stood abruptly, energy crackling through her again. "We need to move NOW. My baby's counting days, Cory. She's six years old and counting days until she can come home."
"Izzy—"
"Don't." She started pacing. "Don't tell me to be patient or strategic or any of that. Someone's trying to take my daughter. They've frozen my money, suspended my license, tried to kill me. And now Chantal might miss her pageant because of them."
Cory stood too, catching her shoulders gently. "You're right."
That stopped her. "I am?"
"We've been playing defense too long." His hands were steady, grounding. "Tomorrow morning we go at Osgood. Hard. Make him crack."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we get creative." Something fierce flashed in those ice-blue eyes. "I told you—people are more important than rules. Chantal's more important than protocol."
She studied his face, seeing the resolve there. Chief By-The-Book was truly gone, replaced by someone seriously dangerous. A good man willing to bend rules for the right reasons.
"Okay," she breathed. "Tomorrow. Reed Osgood."
"Tomorrow," he agreed.
They settled back on the couch, but Izzy couldn't focus on the movie. Her mind kept circling to Chantal's video, to angel wings hanging in their empty apartment, to a Christmas pageant that might happen without her.
As you wish, Westley said on screen, and Cory shifted beside her. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel his warmth.
"We'll get her home," he said quietly. "I promise."
Promises were dangerous things. But looking at his profile in the TV's glow, remembering how he'd stood between her and danger again and again, Izzy found herself believing him.
Tomorrow they'd corner Reed Osgood and make him talk.
For Chantal. For justice. For the chance to see her baby wear those angel wings.
The movie played on, but Izzy's thoughts had already fast-forwarded to morning. To Reno. To answers.
They had six days to burn down this conspiracy and bring her daughter home.