The silence after Robert’s words felt heavier than the accusation itself.
Claire was the first to crack. “You called a lawyer? To your parents’ house? Are you insane?”
Robert remained standing at the head of the table, one hand flat against the back of his chair. “No. I’m prepared.”
His father, Walter, opened the folder with slow, deliberate movements, like a man defusing a bomb. Inside were several papers clipped together: the official DNA results, a notarized statement, and a cover letter from a family law firm in downtown Chicago. He read the first page, then the second, and the blood in his face seemed to rise all at once.
“Probability of paternity,” he said hoarsely, “‘greater than 99.999 percent.’”
Claire took a step backward. “That doesn’t prove—”
“It proves enough,” Walter snapped, louder than I had ever heard him speak to her. “And the video proves the rest.”
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