“I handled a complicated personal issue eight years ago,” Ethan said, his smooth pitch-deck rhythm slipping into a defensive rush.

“Grace was erratic, and I took steps to protect the family from public exposure and financial ruin.”

“They were born healthy at thirty-four weeks,” I said, keeping each word measured and precise.

“Four living sons.”

“May fourteenth,” Sam added quietly, adjusting his wire-rim glasses again.

“At three forty-two in the afternoon.”

Richard took his silver fountain pen out of his suit pocket and began tapping the cap against the open palm of his left hand in a slow, steady count.

“You told us she lost the baby eight years ago, Ethan,” Richard said, narrowing his eyes as he studied his son’s posture.