Chapter 9: What Patricia Sloane Found
Patricia Sloane was not what I had expected.
She was in her early sixties, small, and moved through her office like someone who had seen every version of every story and had run out of patience for the ones that wasted her time.
She shook my hand firmly, gestured to the chair across from her desk, and said, "Tell me everything, and don't decide what's relevant before you say it.
Let me make that call."
So I told her everything.
She took notes in a small, neat hand and asked exact questions.
Not sympathetic questions — precise ones.
Dates.
Account numbers.
Whose name was on what.
Whether my name appeared on the vehicle title.
Whether we had a joint account, separate accounts, or both.
Whether I had documentation of the SUV payments.
Whether Ethan had ever been on any of my accounts without my knowledge.
That last question made me pause.
"Check," she said, reading my expression.
"Today.
All of them."
When I finished, she set down her pen and looked at me directly.
"Here's the picture," she said.
"The vehicle is recoverable.
Your payment records plus the down payment contribution from your father create a strong civil argument regardless of the title.
We file, we document, we move quickly." She tapped the notepad.
"The fraudulent expense issue at Prestige Financial is more significant for you than it might appear.
In a divorce proceeding, financial misconduct during the marriage is relevant to asset division and support determinations.
It speaks to a pattern."
"He didn't take money from me directly," I said.
"He deprived your household of honest income while you contributed everything you had," she said.
"That's not a technicality.
That's the marriage's financial reality for the duration of those fourteen months."
She paused.
"I also want to ask you about the text message he fabricated — the one he showed this other woman, saying you had agreed to separate."
"Yes."
"Do you know if he still has that on his phone?"
"I don't know."
"We may be able to subpoena it," she said.
"A fabricated message used to deceive a third party into a relationship under false pretenses — that goes to character.
It also potentially creates a legal exposure for him beyond the divorce itself." She let that land for a moment.
"I want to be clear.
You have more leverage here than you realize."
I sat with that.
"What about Noah?" I said.
"Primary physical custody is very achievable given your documented involvement and his documented instability," she said.
"The fraudulent termination, the concealment, the living arrangements — these matter.
Courts look at the full picture."
"He loves Noah," I said.
Because it felt important to say.
Because I believed it was probably true, even now.
Patricia Sloane looked at me without softness or judgment.
"That may be," she said.
"But love without honesty, without stability, without financial accountability — that's not the environment your son deserves as his primary home." She closed her notepad.
"You do not have to be angry to protect your child.
You just have to be clear."
I drove home from her office with both hands on the wheel of my own SUV.
Noah was in his car seat behind me.
I could see him in the rearview mirror — awake, watching the trees go by, perfectly content.
My phone rang on the passenger seat.
Ethan.
I let it ring.
When I arrived back at the house, Diane was on the front porch.
No crossed arms this time.
She was sitting in one of the porch chairs, and she looked smaller than she had last night.
"Can we talk?" she said.
I unbuckled Noah and settled him on my hip.
"That depends," I said, "on whether you're planning to tell me the truth."
She looked at her hands.
"I knew about the termination," she said quietly.
"He called me the day it happened.
Before he told you."
I had suspected it.
Hearing it still landed like a weight.
"And the girl," I said.
A pause.
"He brought her to me in October.
Said he needed help.
Said things with you were already over." She looked up.
"I believed him, Camila.
I want you to know that.
I was wrong to believe him, but I did."
"You took my car keys," I said.
"You watched me carry Noah home on a bad ankle.
Whatever you believed about my marriage, you chose to do that."
She didn't look away.
"Yes," she said.
"I did."
It wasn't enough.
It wasn't close to enough.
But it was the first honest sentence she had said to me in six months, and I registered it for what it was.
"I need you to tell your son," I said, "that any conversation about Noah goes through my attorney.
That's the only thing I need from you right now."
May you like
She nodded.
I went inside.
