Carroway looked pale, nodding slowly as he packed his leather briefcase.

I took Nolan’s hand and walked out into the bright Tennessee sunshine.

The heat hit us as we walked to my old sedan.

I buckled Nolan into the back seat.

My mind was spinning.

If Grant had hidden the child support envelopes, what else was he keeping in that house?

I drove down Kingston Pike, the traffic heavy with afternoon commuters.

I decided to stop by Nolan’s elementary school before we went home.

I wanted to let his teacher, Mrs. Latham, know what had happened.

She had been Nolan’s anchor during the divorce.

We parked in the half-empty school lot.

The school bell had rung an hour ago, and the hallways were quiet.

Our footsteps echoed on the polished tile.

We reached classroom 104.

Mrs. Latham was sitting at her desk, a stack of spelling tests in front of her.

“Claire,” she said, looking up with a warm smile. “And Nolan. How did today go?”

“The judge called a recess,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Nolan spoke to the judge,” I added, pride swelling in my chest.