Lucas had chalked her behavior up to strangeness—those lingering touches, the quiet questions, the way she loitered near his things. It had unsettled him. But what he mistook for creepiness had been something else entirely: a desperate mother, fumbling for a way to confirm what her heart already screamed was true.
Kiara hadn’t been smooth. She’d been clumsy, frantic beneath the surface. Her instincts told her it was him—her baby, her Lucas—but instinct wouldn’t hold up in court, wouldn’t convince her husband, and wouldn’t reclaim twenty stolen years. She needed proof. Proof she could hold, and show, and scream about if she had to.