Because I knew that handwriting.
My mother’s.
Under the photo was one sentence.
Ask your father what happened to the other baby.
The courtroom tilted.
Claire grabbed my arm.
Marcus said, “Other baby?”
Savannah whispered, “Oh my God.”
Judge Robert Whitmore, who had stared down murderers, governors, CEOs, and men who thought money made them immortal, stood behind the bench with my phone in his hand and looked suddenly, impossibly old.
And for the first time in my entire life, my father looked afraid.
