Eli’s finger did not stop at his father. It moved past Marcus entirely and settled on the woman sitting directly behind the prosecution table. My sister. Regina. She had been at every hearing for five years, dabbing her eyes, squeezing my daughter’s hand, playing the loyal aunt holding the family together while I rotted. The courtroom followed my son’s small finger and found her, and for one endless second nobody breathed. Regina’s practiced sympathy curdled into something else. Panic.

“She was in Mom’s office,” Eli said, his voice steadier now. “Her and Dad. I was supposed to be at soccer, but I forgot my cleats and came back. They had Mom’s password notebook open on the desk and they were laughing.” He looked at the judge. “Aunt Regina typed on Mom’s computer. Dad watched the door.” My lawyer was already on her feet. Marcus had gone gray. And Regina, who had spent half a decade perfecting the role of the grieving sister, made the one mistake that finished them both. She turned to Marcus, in front of the entire courtroom, and hissed, “You said he never saw us.”