His face had turned a dull grey color.

Preston Carroway took a step toward the bench, then stopped.

Judge Harlan read the note once, then read it again.

“Nolan,” the judge said, his deep voice remarkably quiet.

“Yes, sir?” Nolan answered, standing tall.

“You wrote this yourself?”

“Yes, sir. I wrote it in my bedroom at my dad’s house.”

“You state here that you saw your father place a yellow envelope inside a vent in the guest bedroom.”

“Yes, sir. It had my mom’s name on it and ‘Support’ written in red marker.”

“And why did you write this down?”

“Because my dad told me my mom didn’t want me anymore because she wouldn’t pay for my school,” Nolan said.

The words cut through me like a physical blow.

I looked at Grant, whose jaw was clenched so tight his muscles stood out in his neck.

“That is a lie,” Grant said, his voice shaking with restrained anger.

“Sit down, Mr. Bellamy,” Judge Harlan said, not looking up from the note.

“Your Honor,” Carroway began, his voice losing some of its earlier confidence. “This is clearly a fabricated piece of evidence. A child cannot—”