Chapter 6: The Office on Crane Street
My solicitor's name is Patricia Vane.
She has an office above a bookshop on Crane Street and has been practicing family and civil law for thirty years.
I had used her once before, for a lease dispute.
She had resolved it in two phone calls.
I trusted her completely.
I arrived at nine-fifteen with the folder, the printed email, my phone showing the unauthorized email sent from my own account, and a screenshot of the joint account transaction with Sienna's name on the florist deposit.
Patricia read through everything without speaking.
She was a small woman with close-cropped gray hair and reading glasses she wore on a chain.
When she finished, she took her glasses off, set them on the folder, and looked at me.
"He accessed your email account without your consent," she said.
"Yes."
"Used it to authorize himself as an approved contact on a venue booking."
"Yes."
"And made a financial transaction from a joint account in a third party's name."
"My sister's name.
For the same wedding."
Patricia picked up her pen.
"The bribe attempt to Margot — do you have the email?"
"Yes.
And Margot has confirmed she will testify."
"Good." She wrote something.
"The co-commission at the atelier — that's a civil matter, potentially actionable depending on how the original contract was structured.
We can request that documentation from Margot's office." She looked up.
"The email and account access are more serious.
Those move into criminal territory."
"He told me I'd calm down," I said.
Patricia looked at me for a moment.
Then she said, very dryly: "I imagine he's beginning to revise that assessment."
She outlined the steps.
A formal cease and desist to Graham regarding the venue, the gown, and any further use of my accounts or identity.
A letter to the Ashcombe Glasshouse confirming I was the sole authorized booking holder and revoking any access Graham had added.
A formal complaint to her bank regarding the joint account transaction.
And a file opened with the appropriate authority regarding the unauthorized email access.
"There's something else," I said.
"The Instagram story.
Graham toasting her publicly.
'To the most beautiful bride in Bellmare.' It was on her account.
It's still up."
"Screenshot it," Patricia said.
"Right now, before it disappears."
I already had.
I showed her.
She nodded.
"Good." She made another note.
"Now.
What is it you want from all of this, Juliet?
Specifically."
"I want the venue returned to my name.
Full control.
No further access for him."
"Done."
"I want the joint account closed and every unauthorized transaction disputed."
"We'll pursue that."
"I want the gown.
No alteration.
No transfer.
Mine."
"That should be straightforward, given what Margot has told you."
"And I want it documented," I said.
"All of it.
Properly.
So that if he ever tells this story to someone else — if he ever describes what happened here as me being difficult, or hysterical, or someone who couldn't handle things — there is a paper record of what he actually did."
Patricia set her pen down.
"That," she said, "I can absolutely do."
She walked me out at ten-forty.
On the step, she paused.
"One thing," she said.
"Graham may attempt to contact you in a way that feels conciliatory.
An apology.
An offer to talk.
Perhaps even an offer to pay back the account funds quietly, without formal process."
"And if he does?"
"Tell him to speak to me."
I nodded.
My phone buzzed as I reached the pavement.
A message from a number I didn't recognize.
Not Graham's number.
Not Sienna's.
I opened it.
*Juliet — I think we need to talk.
This is Nora Alcott.
Graham's mother.
I know what my son has done.
I'd like to meet, if you're willing.
I have information you don't have yet.
It matters.*
I stood on Crane Street in the late morning light, reading that message twice.
Graham's mother.
A woman I had met a dozen times.
A woman who had sat across from me at Christmas dinner and called me a lovely girl.
A woman who, I had always assumed, was firmly and entirely on her son's side.
May you like
I typed back one line.
*When and where?*
