"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."
