A collective gasp swept through the courtroom. In the gallery, a woman covered her mouth.
On the video, a small, terrified voice—my daughter's voice—sobbed. "Please, Daddy. I don't want to lie. Mommy is good."
Julian grabbed the camera—presumably grabbing Maya by the shoulders. The image shook violently. "You do what I say, or I will throw that stupid rabbit in the fireplace and I will leave you on the street. Say it. Say 'Mommy is crazy.'"
The video cut to black.
The silence that followed was absolute, suffocating, and heavy with a horrifying realization.
I felt the blood drain from my face, my hands gripping the edge of my table so hard my knuckles turned white. My heart pounded a furious, violent rhythm against my ribs. He had threatened my baby. He had terrorized her while I thought she was safely spending her weekend visitation with him.
Judge Thorne slowly lowered the iPad. Her face was entirely devoid of color, her lips pressed into a thin, white line. When she looked up, her eyes were locked onto Julian Vance. It was the look of an executioner.