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The black tabs held the financial records.
Evan had transferred marital assets into three shell companies after I told him I was pregnant. He had paid a private investigator to follow me to therapy. He had sent fifty thousand dollars to a clinic administrator two days before a false psychiatric summary appeared in Marcus’s custody filing.
The judge’s jaw tightened.
Marcus finally lost color.
“Mrs. Reed,” the judge said, “how did you obtain these bank records?”
I touched my son’s blanket. “From accounts bearing my forged signature, Your Honor. As joint owner, I had legal access. I also filed a police report for identity theft last week.”
Evan stood so quickly that his chair struck the railing.
“You little snake,” he hissed.
My baby stirred, then settled when I kissed his head.
The judge’s gavel cracked through the courtroom like thunder. “Sit down, Mr.
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