My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

“The good news,” Wendell said carefully, “is the district attorney has no interest in charging your son. The footage is strong, the context stronger. They’re treating him as a victim. The bad news is Marsha is fighting the narrative already.”

William didn’t look up from the papers in his hands. “What narrative?”

“That she abused him.” Wendell turned a page. “Her attorney is suggesting you manipulated the situation because of your professional background and unresolved childhood trauma. They’re implying the shed is being sensationalized.”

William let out a humorless breath. “A padlocked structure with a chain in it is being sensationalized.”

“I didn’t say it was a good argument.”

William pulled a folder from the top drawer and slid it across the table. “I filed a records request on Sue.”

Wendell opened it. His eyebrows rose.

“Sue Melton served as a military nurse for sixteen years,” William said. “Transferred three times. Three formal complaints of patient abuse or excessive force. None substantiated to the degree needed for court-martial, but they’re there. One involved restraints. One involved punitive sedation. One involved rough handling of a psychiatric patient.”