“I’m not stalling because of reality,” I countered. “I’m stalling because the terms were built on a foundation of fraud.”
The word hit the room like a grenade. Lenora’s face shifted through a kaleidoscope of emotions—confusion, indignation, and finally, a creeping, primal fear. She shifted in her chair, her designer blazer suddenly appearing to choke her. I didn’t look at her. Instead, I pulled a plain manila envelope from my jacket. Inside was a truth so jagged it had nearly severed my sanity three days prior.
I walked to the bench and handed the envelope to the judge. My own lawyer, a weary public defender named Hector Molina, stared at me with his mouth agape. I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t told anyone. Some traps are only effective if you set them in total silence.
“Your Honor,” I said, the echo of my footsteps fading. “This envelope contains DNA test results for all three children listed in the custody agreement: Marcus, age twelve; Jolene, age nine; and Wyatt, age six.”
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