At Gracie's funeral, my sister leaned into the microphone and said, "Maybe God took her because he saw what kind of mother she had."

The next morning, I walked into the offices of Clara Vance, the top criminal prosecutor for the county. She was a no-nonsense woman with sharp gray eyes and a reputation for dismantling corrupt families in court.

"Ms. Miller," Clara said, laying out a series of large binders on the conference table. "We have a rock-solid case for first-degree murder, child endangerment, and tampering with evidence. The video your son recorded is fully admissible; he did it in a common area of the home where there is no expectation of privacy for criminal acts, and the metadata confirms it was recorded three days before Gracie's admission to the hospital."

"What about my sister's defense?" I asked, my hands locked around a paper cup of cold coffee. "She’s going to claim it was manslaughter. A mistake."

"We found three different search queries on her personal laptop from the weeks leading up to Gracie's death," Clara revealed, sliding a printed document across the table. My eyes scanned the text: Alprazolam dosage for toddlers. How to mask bitter taste in juice. Symptoms of pediatric overdose.

The room felt like it was spinning. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a misguided attempt to calm a hyperactive child. It was a methodical, premeditated plan to make my daughter sick enough to prove that I was incapable of taking care of her.

"She wanted custody," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "Diane couldn't have children of her own. She wanted to prove I was unstable, get Gracie taken away by Child Protective Services, and then step in as the savior aunt to adopt her."

"Exactly," Clara nodded grimly. "And we found the draft of the CPS anonymous report she was planning to file the week Gracie died. She was going to use the medical records of Gracie's lethargy—which she caused—as proof of your neglect."