I placed my hand on the last sealed envelope inside my briefcase.
For the first time that morning, Preston stopped looking at me like I was his wife.
He looked at me like I was a threat.
Judge Rebecca Morrison noticed it too.
Her gaze moved from his pale face to the envelope beneath my hand.
“Mrs. Hale,” she said carefully, “what exactly are you asking the court to consider?”
I stood.
“Evidence explaining why my husband needed those forged waivers to exist.”
Martin Voss was already on his feet.
