Attorney Reynolds laid three items on the clerk’s table: a bank record, a small black drive, and a signed statement. The first page was a gas station receipt stamped 11:42 that night, paired with a photograph of the driver standing at the pump. It was Sophie’s face. Marcus lunged forward. “That’s fake!” he shouted, but his voice cracked halfway through.

The judge ordered the footage played. The screen flickered, and a grainy image showed a silver sedan swerving into the lot. Sophie stepped out laughing, a bottle in her hand, walking perfectly on both feet. Then the passenger door opened, and a second figure climbed out slowly. My mother’s hand flew to her mouth, because she recognized that person instantly, and so did my father, who finally lifted his eyes from the floor.