“I always wondered where it came from,” Claire replied, her voice barely a whisper.

A detective named Miller entered the room, carrying three cardboard cups of water.

He set them on the wood-grain table and sat down across from us.

“Richard is being held without bail,” Miller said, looking at me with a sympathetic expression. “The immediate charges are custodial interference and first-degree document forgery.”

“What about the man who helped him?” I asked, my voice dry.

“Arthur Vance was arrested at his home an hour ago,” Miller said. “He is already talking to the prosecutors to save his pension.”

I looked down at my wedding ring, the diamond catching the harsh fluorescent light of the ceiling.

I slowly twisted the band off my finger and set it quietly on the table next to the paper cups.

The trial took place three months later in the county courthouse.

The courtroom was quiet, filled only with the hum of the air conditioner and the rustle of legal pads.

Richard sat at the defense table in a gray suit that looked too big for his shrinking frame.