“Go on, son.
What do you mean, lies?”
Rory reached down and took hold of the hem of the shirt they had just used against me.
He looked straight across the aisle at his father — not at the judge, at his father — and he turned the hem of the shirt inside out.
Chapter 6 — What the Shirt Said
Turned inside out, the navy cotton was covered in handwriting.
Along the inner seams, in the careful, uneven printing of an eight-year-old and the permanent black of a fabric marker, ran a column of dates and short notes — weeks of them, small and deliberate, hidden where no one washing or folding the shirt would ever think to look.
“My dad made me get this shirt dirty,” Rory said, holding it open toward the bench.
“On purpose.
And then he wanted to throw it away, because of what I wrote inside it.”