Chapter 6: Eight O'Clock
Paul's office had a small conference table near the window.
He used it when things were too large for a desk.
He was already at the table when I walked in.
There was a folder in front of him.
Closed.
His hands were flat on either side of it.
"Sit down," he said.
I sat.
He opened the folder.
The first page was a photograph.
A school photograph, the kind taken in autumn — blue background, slightly too-bright lighting.
Marcus.
Last year's photo.
The one we had framed on the mantelpiece.
"Why is this here?" I asked.
"Keep looking."
The second page was a document.
A medical record.
Marcus's name at the top.
A date from eight months ago — a visit I hadn't known about, to a pediatrician I didn't recognize.
I read the notes.
*Child presents with low weight for age.
Parent reports selective eating and behavioral refusal.
Parent requests documentation of behavioral difficulties for ongoing family legal matter.*
I looked up.
"She took him to a doctor I didn't know about."
"To build the record.
Yes.
The pediatrician saw him once.
There's no follow-up.
No treatment.
Just the documentation."
I turned to the next page.
Another medical record.
Different date.
Same pediatrician.
Same language.
"She went twice," Paul said.
"Eight months apart.
Both times, she described the same behavioral issues.
Both times, she asked for written documentation."
"For the custody case."
"For the custody case." He paused.
"The pediatrician has since retired.
The practice closed.
The records exist, but there's no one to cross-examine."
I set the pages down.
"What else?" I asked.
Paul reached across and turned to the next section of the folder.
It was a printed email chain.
The addresses at the top were Renee's personal email and an address I didn't recognize.
"Her sister?" I asked.
"Her sister's husband.
A family law attorney in Bridgeport."
I read the first email.
Dated sixteen months ago.
*R — when you're ready to move, we need to start the paper trail now.
The behavioral documentation needs to be at least 12 months old before you file.
Start with the school.
Get the teacher to note anything negative, even small things.
Then the pediatrician.
Make sure it's someone he hasn't seen before.*
I turned the page.
*What about the money?
— R*
*Slow transfers.
Nothing over 4k at a time.
Use the Nevada account we set up.
Daniel won't notice until it's too late and by then you'll have enough to sustain yourself through the full proceedings.
— G*
I set the pages down on the table.
My hands were steady.
I noticed that.
I had expected them to shake.
"How did you get these?" I asked.
"The investigator found the Nevada account.
Once we had the account, we had the registration documents.
Once we had those, we had the brother-in-law's name.
He had a data breach at his firm two years ago — the emails were part of a compromised archive that became accessible through a legal discovery process in an unrelated case." Paul folded his hands.
"Everything here is legally obtained."
"Sixteen months," I said.
"She started this sixteen months ago."
"Yes."
"Marcus was nine."
"Yes."
I looked at the school photograph still sitting on the table.
My son's face.
His slightly crooked smile.
The way he always tilted his head a little to the left in photos.
"She used him as a document," I said.
Paul didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
"What do we do with this?" I asked.
"We file an amended petition this afternoon.
Fraud.
Financial misconduct.
Coordinated evidence fabrication in a custody matter." He paused.
"The brother-in-law is an attorney.
What he did in those emails is a serious ethical violation.
I've already contacted the state bar."
"And Renee?"
"She goes from defendant in a divorce to defendant in a fraud case." He closed the folder.
"Daniel, she built a trap.
She just didn't know you'd been watching long enough to see the whole shape of it."
I sat back in my chair.
Outside the window, the city was going about its morning.
Cars.
A woman walking a dog.
A delivery truck idling at the corner.
"She said something last night," I said.
"Before she walked out of the kitchen.
She said I wasn't the only problem she had."
Paul looked at me.
"What do you think she meant?" I asked.
He was quiet for a moment.
"I think," he said carefully, "that she was expecting someone else to be a problem for you.
Someone who might have information about you that she planned to use." He paused.
"The investigator flagged one more name in the financial trail.
Someone who received two transfers from the Nevada account."
He turned to the last page of the folder and slid it across the table.
I looked at the name.
May you like
I recognized it immediately.
It was someone I trusted completely.
