Chapter 8: Daniel Forsythe
The lawyer's name was Patricia Hale.
Her office was on the fourth floor of a building near the city centre, small and tidy, with a window that looked out over a car park.
She had short grey hair and reading glasses on a chain and she listened to everything I said without writing a single note until I finished.
Then she wrote for about forty-five seconds straight.
"The video from your neighbour," she said.
"You have a copy?"
"Three copies.
Cloud, email, and my sister's phone."
"Good.
The bank account — you said you froze it this morning?"
"As soon as they opened."
"And your daughter is currently with your sister?"
"Yes."
She set her pen down.
"Mr.
Calloway.
What you've described — the physical restraint, the psychological threats, the financial withdrawal pattern — this is a serious picture.
I want to be honest with you about that."
"I know."
"I also want to be honest that your wife may have a counter-narrative ready.
If she anticipated this meeting, she may already be building one."
"She told me I didn't want to dig into things.
That she knew things I didn't."
Patricia looked at me steadily.
"Did she say what things?"
"No.
But I got two messages last night from an unknown number.
First one said to ask about the money.
Second one gave me a name.
Daniel Forsythe."
I watched her face.
Nothing changed in it.
"Do you know that name?" I asked.
"I don't.
But I'd suggest you find out who sent those messages before your wife does." She picked up her pen again.
"Is there anything else you haven't told me?"
I thought about Kerensa's voice.
*Ugly things don't get kept.*
"My daughter told my sister that Meliora said ugly things don't get kept.
She told her that if I found out things I'd get sad and go away.
Like my father did." I paused.
"My father died two years ago.
Kerensa thinks he went away."
Patricia was quiet for a moment.
"How old is your daughter?"
"Four."
She wrote something down.
Then she looked up.
"Mr.
Calloway, I'm going to apply for an emergency child arrangement order today.
Given what your daughter disclosed this morning, I believe we have grounds.
That will formalize where Kerensa stays while proceedings are underway and it will limit your wife's unsupervised access."
"How long will that take?"
"If I file this afternoon, we could have a hearing within the week."
I nodded.
"In the meantime," she said, "go home.
Don't tell your wife about this appointment.
Don't confront her about Daniel Forsythe yet.
Let her believe you're still deciding what to do."
"Why?"
"Because people who believe they have time make mistakes." She closed her notepad.
"And I want her to make one."
I drove home.
Meliora was in the living room.
She looked up when I came in and her expression was neutral, almost pleasant, like the previous night had been reset.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"Clearing my head," I said.
"Walking."
She nodded.
"I think we should talk.
Properly.
When you're ready."
"Sure," I said.
"When I'm ready."
I went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed.
I typed Daniel Forsythe into my phone browser and waited.
The first result was a LinkedIn profile.
Project manager.
Based in Edinburgh.
The profile photo showed a man in his late thirties, dark hair, standing in front of what looked like a hotel lobby.
The second result was a Facebook page.
Same man.
And in his profile photo, standing beside him, smiling at the camera—
May you like
Meliora.
The photo was dated eight months ago.
