During our marriage, Grant had always insisted his cash-flow properties in North Knoxville were barely breaking even.

He had produced tax returns and bank statements showing minimal income to the court.

But Nolan had seen the truth.

He had seen his father and Daniel hiding physical cash inside the walls of the office.

“Nolan is a very bright boy, Claire,” Mrs. Latham said, watching me lower my phone. “But he is carrying a weight that doesn’t belong to an eight-year-old.”

“I know,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m trying to fix this. I promise you, I am.”

“The court-appointed advocate, Renee Whitaker, called me yesterday,” she said.

I looked at her, surprised. “Renee called you?”

“She wanted to know how Nolan was doing socially,” Mrs. Latham nodded. “I told her he is brilliant, but lately he seems anxious.”

“She is coming to my apartment for a home visit tomorrow,” I said, clutching my purse.

“Show her who you are, Claire,” Mrs. Latham said, placing a warm hand over mine. “And let her see how much Nolan loves you.”