His mother, Marjorie, sat in the corner of the room, clutching her leather handbag like a shield against the wood-paneled walls.

Sloane was absent; her defense attorney had already submitted a written statement, a detail that made Nolan’s knuckles turn white as he gripped his pen.

The court reporter adjusted her machine, the quiet clicking of the keys the only sound in the room.

“State your name for the record,” Sarah said, leaning forward.

“Nolan Pierce,” he said, his voice smooth and steady.

He looked across the table at me and offered a small, sympathetic smile, the one he always used when he wanted to remind me of my own supposed fragility.

Sarah placed a thick stack of printed documents on the polished wood.

“Mr. Pierce, let’s look at the transfer documents for the Delaware Trust,” she said.

“My wife signed those voluntarily,” Nolan said, glancing toward the court reporter as if to ensure she caught his tone. “Evelyn was going through a difficult recovery after Maisie was born. Her memory of those weeks is… foggy, at best.”