They had sworn, under oath, that I had left their home in Greenwich on foot and that they had been nowhere near me.

The cameras showed my father driving my unconscious body across two towns in the dark.

It was no longer a matter of interpretation, or of competing accounts, or of my word against theirs.

It was on video.

The physical evidence, cold and objective and immune to any narrative, was beginning to stack up against them, and every new piece of it did the same quiet, devastating thing: it moved the truth out of my contested, discredited mouth and into the record, where their money and their lies could not reach it.

They had built their entire strategy on the assumption that it would always be my word against theirs.