Marcus shifted. “Medical records do not prove causation.”
“No,” I said. “But text messages help.”
The judge turned the page.
Evan’s voice filled the courtroom when the clerk played the audio transcript from my phone: Sign the custody transfer before the birth, Lily, or I’ll make sure the court thinks you’re insane. I own the people who decide what mothers deserve.
A murmur moved through the room.
Evan slammed his hand onto the table. “That’s edited.”
“It was authenticated,” I said.
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “By whom?”
I looked at him calmly. “By the same forensic lab your firm uses in corporate fraud cases.”
That was the first sign that they had chosen the wrong woman to corner.
Before I became Evan’s wife, before Claudia trained her friends to call me “the charity girl,” I had worked as a forensic accountant for the state attorney’s office. I knew how powerful men concealed things. I knew how lawyers buried threats inside paperwork. I knew the difference between an error and a pattern.
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