“Those are my sons.”

“They are both your sons,” Judge Beckett said coldly.

“And right now, this court has reason to believe you have lied under oath about your assets.”

At that moment, the heavy wooden doors at the back of the courtroom swung open.

A man in a dark trench coat walked in, holding a black leather portfolio.

He caught my eye and gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod.

It was the investigator I had hired three weeks ago.

He carried the final piece of the puzzle.

The investigator, David Miller, walked with a slow, deliberate stride down the center aisle of the courtroom.

His wet trench coat smelled of the cold autumn rain falling outside the tall windows.

He stepped past the wooden swinging gate and handed the black leather portfolio directly to my attorney, Arthur Vance.

“Thank you, David,” I whispered.

Gavin stared at the portfolio as if it contained a live explosive.

A tight muscle worked in his jaw, twitching beneath his expensive stubble.

Philip Dane stepped forward, placing his body between the investigator and the judge’s bench.