Garrett shook his head, staring at the blue folder on the desk.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked, his voice cracked. “Five years, Clara. Why did you disappear and let me think you abandoned us? Why did you sign those papers?”

I looked at him, feeling a sudden, cold wave of pity.

“I never signed any papers, Garrett,” I said softly.

He frowned, stepping closer. “What are you talking about? The divorce decree. Your signature was on the final filing.”

“I didn’t even know we were divorced until six months after the judge ordered it,” I said.

“That’s a lie,” Vivian interjected, though her voice lacked its previous venom. She looked toward the door.

“Is it?” I asked, turning my gaze to her.

I reached into my briefcase again and pulled out a second document.

This one was a certified copy of the original five-year-old filing, marked with a red forensic stamp.

“I hired a handwriting expert last month,” I said, placing it in front of Garrett.

“Look at the cursive on the second page,” I told him. “And then look at your mother.”