“He paid Dr. Robert Whitaker forty thousand dollars to falsify my medical records.”

Callum stood up so fast his heavy leather chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“Your Honor, this is an absolute fabrication,” he shouted.

“Sit down, Mr. Prescott,” Judge Mallory warned.

The recording continued to play.

“I have spent the last three weeks in hiding, gathering the transaction receipts,” my voice said.

“And I have recording devices in our home.”

The speaker crackled, and then Callum’s actual voice came through.

“You will sign the custody papers, Avery, or I will make sure you never see the light of day,” his recorded voice threatened.

“The police won’t help you. The doctors work for me.”

Voss looked down at his papers, his face turning pale.

He slowly moved away from Callum, leaving a gap between them at the table.

The heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom swung open with a deep thud.

The cold draft from the hallway rushed inside.

I walked through the doorway, my hand resting on my thirty-four-week pregnant belly.

I wore a simple black wool coat and flat shoes.

Behind me stood two federal agents in dark gray suits, their badges visible.

Beside them was Arthur Vance.

He was my late father-in-law’s principal accountant, wearing a worn tweed suit.

He carried a thick, leather-bound black ledger tucked under his arm.

Callum turned around, his eyes locking onto mine.

His jaw tightened, a vein pulsing near his temple.

“Avery,” he whispered.

I walked down the center aisle, my steps slow and deliberate.

The federal agents stayed by the gate, their eyes fixed on Callum.

I stopped at the petitioner’s table and looked up at the bench.

“I am here to present my own evidence, Your Honor,” I said.

Judge Mallory looked at Arthur, then at the black ledger.

“And who is this gentleman?” the judge asked.