Melinda spoke, barely above a whisper.
“I can.”
Connor turned slowly toward her.
The room shifted.
Kenneth’s pen paused.
I stared at Melinda.
She held the baby closer. Her lips trembled, but her voice came clearer the second time.
“I can prove it.”
Connor’s expression emptied. “Careful.”
It was not a threat, exactly. Not loud enough, not dramatic enough. But the room heard it.
Melinda heard it most of all.
She looked down at the little boy in her arms. He had fallen asleep against her shoulder, his lashes damp from crying, his mouth slightly open.
“I found emails,” she said. “After the baby was born.”
Connor stood so fast his chair scraped the floor.
Kenneth moved one step forward. Not aggressively. Just enough.
“What emails?” I asked.
Melinda’s tears fell onto the baby’s blanket.
“From the clinic coordinator. From the storage facility. Messages forwarded to an account Connor thought I didn’t know about.” She looked at me then. “There were scanned documents. Payment confirmations. And a message about your signature needing to match the previous consent form more closely.”
