Chloe unzipped her backpack and pulled out her tablet — one corner cracked. I hadn’t even noticed.
The bailiff connected it to the courtroom screen.
The first image appeared: a still frame from a video dated two weeks before my surgery.
My stomach dropped.
The bailiff pressed play.
Nick was sitting in our living room, leaning forward, speaking in a low voice to someone we couldn’t see — a woman.
“I’m telling you,” he said in the recording, “once the transplant’s done, I’ll finally be free.”
The courtroom went silent.
“I’ve already met with a lawyer. Assets are getting moved. The custody strategy is in place. She won’t see it coming. I’ll leave her with nothing.”
The woman laughed softly. “And she really doesn’t suspect anything?”
“She’s too trusting,” Nick replied. “Always has been.”
Then his eyes shifted.
“Hold on,” he whispered. “I need to see what Chloe is doing.”
“Chloe? What are you doing?” he asked more loudly.
The camera angle shifted as small hands adjusted it.
“I’m trying to learn to record things with my tablet.”
A few gasps filled the courtroom.
Nick forced a smile. “That’s great, sweetheart. Let Daddy see.”