“I started crying because Mom worked so hard to buy me this shirt,” Nolan said, gripping the hem of the navy-blue fabric he wore.

“I asked Dad to help me clean it in the gas station bathroom. But he said no. He said we had to walk to the corner right then. And when we got there, there was a man in a parked car with a big camera. Dad told me to look sad and look at the car. Then the man took pictures.”

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. Grant hadn’t just hired an investigator to follow us.

He had deliberately sabotaged his own son, humiliated him, and staged the photograph.

Judge Harlan’s face darkened like a gathering storm. He turned slowly toward Grant. “Mr. Bellamy. Is this true?”

Grant’s flawless composure cracked. He stammered, adjusting his silk tie. “Your Honor, the boy is confused. Children have wild imaginations, and his mother has clearly coached him—”