The teacher only wished to shake seven-year-old Emily awake after she drifted off to sleep during the lesson again.

Renee's attorney was a man named Garrett, and he moved fast.

By the following morning, he had filed a formal complaint against the child protection office alleging procedural misconduct.

He had contacted the school district claiming Emily's teacher had acted outside her authority.

He had submitted a fourteen-page document — prepared, Dana noted, with remarkable speed — outlining Emily's alleged history of behavioral disturbances, emotional instability, and what he called "a documented pattern of attention-seeking fabrication."

Dana read it at her desk with a coffee going cold beside her.

"He's good," said her supervisor, leaning in the doorway.

"He's fast," Dana said.

"That's not the same thing."

"Renee has money.

Paul's money, technically, but she has access to it."

"Not for much longer." Dana set the document down.

"Carol's photographs have timestamps.

The school nurse's report is contemporaneous.

Emily's statement was recorded.

And the receipt for that lock puts the purchase six months ago, two weeks after Paul left for an extended work contract." She picked up her coffee.

"Garrett can file whatever he wants.

The evidence doesn't care."

But Garrett's strategy wasn't really about the evidence.

It was about delay.

About making the process long enough and expensive enough that Paul might waver.

About planting enough doubt that a judge might hesitate.

And it was about Emily.

Three days after the initial removal, Garrett requested an independent psychological evaluation of Emily, citing her "established pattern of fabrication." The request was standard enough that it couldn't easily be refused.

The evaluation was scheduled.

Dana called Paul that evening.

"They're going to put Emily through an evaluation," she said.

"It's a tactic.

They want to establish a record that she's unreliable."

"Can they do that?"

"They can request it.

We can't stop it.

But here's what you need to know — the evaluator is court-appointed, not Renee's choice.

And Emily is going to tell the truth, because that's what she's been doing all along." Dana paused.

"How is she?"

"Sleeping," Paul said.

"In a bed.

In a room with the door open because she asked me to leave it open." His voice was rough.

"She woke up twice last night.

I heard her.

I went in both times.

She was just — checking.

Making sure she was still inside."

Dana pressed her fingers against her eyes for a moment.

"Paul, there's something else.

Garrett's document mentions a prior incident — two years ago.

Emily was taken to the emergency room for a wrist injury.

The record shows it was logged as an accidental fall."

Silence on the line.

"Do you remember that?" Dana asked.

"She fell off the back step," Paul said.

"Renee was with her.

I was at work.

Renee said she'd been running and tripped."

"Emily was four years old at the time."

"Yes."

"We're pulling the full medical file.

If the injury pattern is inconsistent with a fall, that record becomes evidence of something that started much earlier than October." Dana kept her voice even.

"I need you to be prepared for that."

A long pause.

"How much earlier?" Paul asked.

"We don't know yet."

Another silence.

Then: "She's been hurting my daughter for two years and I was—" He stopped.

"I was right there."

"You were lied to."

"I was convenient," he said.

"I traveled.

I stayed away.

I let Renee handle things because it was easier." The words came out flat and deliberate, like a man reading charges against himself.