Richard raised his leather belt high above his head. My eight-year-old son Ethan cowered in the corner, trembling and covering his face with his arms. I'd come to pick Ethan up for our weekend visit. The front door was slightly ajar. I'd walked in quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone. Instead, I walked straight into my worst nightmare.

"Gone?" I screamed into the phone. "What do you mean he's gone?"

"He was in his room," the social worker said, her voice panicked. "I stepped out for five minutes to make a phone call. When I came back, the window was open. And he was gone."

I threw the car into drive and peeled out of the parking lot.

"I'm on my way," I said. "Call the police."

"I already did. They're on their way."

I drove as fast as I could, my mind racing.

Ethan was eight years old. He couldn't have gotten far. Not on his own.

Unless someone had taken him.

Unless Sarah had taken him.

Or someone working for her.

I arrived at the foster home ten minutes later. It was a small, neat house in a quiet neighborhood. Police cars were already parked outside. Lights flashing.

An officer met me at the door.

"Mr. Carter?"

I nodded, breathless. "Where is he? Did you find him?"

"Not yet," the officer said. "We're searching the area. K-9 units are on the way."

I ran inside. The social worker was standing in the living room, crying. The foster parents looked shaken.

"Which room was he in?" I demanded.

"Down the hall, second door on the left," the social worker said.

I ran down the hall.

The room was small, with a single bed and a few toys scattered on the floor. The window was wide open. The screen had been pushed out.

I climbed out the window. The backyard was fenced. The gate was standing open.

He'd run away.

But why?

And where would he go?

I thought about it. Ethan was scared. Confused. He'd just been taken away from his father. Placed in a strange house with strangers.

Where would an eight-year-old boy go when he was scared?

Home.

My home.

I ran back to my car.

I drove to my apartment as fast as I could, ignoring speed limits and stop signs.

I pulled into the parking lot and saw him immediately.

He was sitting on the steps in front of my building, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was shivering, even though it wasn't cold.

"Ethan!"

He looked up. His face lit up when he saw me.

"Dad!"

He ran to me. I dropped to my knees and caught him in my arms. He was crying, his whole body shaking.

"I missed you," he sobbed. "I didn't want to stay there. I wanted to come home."

"I know, buddy," I said, holding him tight. "I know."

I heard sirens. The police had followed me.

Officer Martinez—the same officer from the first night—pulled up. He got out of his car and walked over.

"You found him," he said, relieved.

"He came home," I said.

Ethan clung to me. "I'm not going back there. You can't make me."

Officer Martinez knelt down. "Hey, buddy. I know you're scared. But you can't run away like that. You scared everyone."

"I just wanted my dad," Ethan said.

"I know." Officer Martinez looked at me. "I'll talk to the judge. See if we can arrange something. Maybe supervised visits at your place. Until the next hearing."

"Thank you," I said.

He stood up. "I'll be in touch."

He left.

I took Ethan inside. I made him hot chocolate and wrapped him in a blanket. We sat on the couch together, and he told me about the foster home. About how the other kids had been mean to him. About how scared he'd been.

"I thought I'd never see you again," he said.

"You'll always see me," I said. "No matter what."

Later that night, after Ethan had fallen asleep on the couch, my phone rang.

It was Harold.

"I have news," he said.

"Good or bad?"

"Both," he said. "First, the good news. I found out about the insurance policy Richard mentioned."

"And?"

"Sarah took out a $2 million life insurance policy on you," he said. "Three months ago."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"On me?"

"Yes. And she made herself the sole beneficiary."

Two million dollars.

That was why.

That was why she'd framed me. That was why she wanted custody of Ethan.

If I went to prison for child abuse, I'd be out of the way. And if something "happened" to me in prison...

She'd get $2 million.

And she'd get Ethan.

And she could go back to abusing him whenever she wanted.

"The bad news," Harold continued, "is that I just got off the phone with Sarah's lawyer. She's filing a motion to have your parental rights terminated."

I closed my eyes.

"On what grounds?"

"Abandonment," he said. "She's saying you haven't been a part of Ethan's life for years. That you only showed up recently to cause trouble."

"That's a lie," I said. "I've been in his life every single week."

"I know. And we'll prove it. But it's going to be a fight. A big one."

He paused.

"Also," he said, "I talked to Richard's lawyer. He says Richard is ready to make a deal. He'll testify against Sarah. Tell the court everything. In exchange for a reduced sentence."

I looked at Ethan, sleeping peacefully on the couch.

I hated Richard. I hated what he'd done.

But he was my only chance.

"Tell him we'll talk," I said.

"Okay. And David?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. Sarah is desperate. And desperate people do desperate things."

He hung up.

I sat there in the dark, holding my sleeping son.

Sarah had taken out a hit on my life. Or at least, she'd positioned herself to profit from my death.

And now she was trying to take my son away forever.

I needed help.