Chapter 7: The Moment She Almost Won
Three days later, Monica Hale requested to speak with me directly.
Ramirez advised against it.
I went anyway.
She was seated at the table in the same room where I had watched Foss through the glass.
Her attorney was beside her.
She looked composed — hair pulled back, hands folded, the same careful stillness she had worn the night the police arrived at my house.
I sat down across from her.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
"I didn't hurt Emma," she said.
"You locked her in a room."
"I was establishing boundaries.
Children need structure."
"You told a four-year-old that her mother d*ed because of her."
Something crossed her face.
Not remorse.
A recalculation.
"Children misinterpret things," she said.
"She was confused."
"She wasn't confused." I kept my voice level.
"She was the only person in that house who was telling the truth."
Monica looked at her attorney, then back at me.
"Daniel." Her voice softened.
"I know what the police have told you.
I know what it looks like.
But you're a smart man.
Think about what you actually have.
Surveillance footage that shows me in a house.
Photographs on a phone.
A child's testimony.
None of that is what they're telling you it is."
"Paul Whitfield is d*ed."
"Paul had a drinking problem.
His balance was poor.
That staircase was steep and he refused to install a handrail despite my asking him to." She said it smoothly.
Rehearsed.
"I left that marriage because I was afraid of him, not the other way around."
"Then why the cameras?"
"I was documenting his behavior.
For my own protection."
"In my house too?
Before you moved in?"
A brief pause.
"I was protecting myself.
I had been in a dangerous situation before.
I needed to know I was safe."
"You sent those photographs to Gerald Foss."
The name landed.
Her hands shifted slightly on the table.
One finger moved against the other.
"I don't know anyone by that name."
"His prepaid number is in your call records forty-seven times."
Her attorney put a hand on her arm.
She ignored it.
"Those calls were to a service I used," she said.
"A personal security consultant."
"Gerald Foss ran a grief counseling group," I said.
"He used it to find people like me.
He gave you my name, my daughter's name, my dead wife's favorite book.
He built you a door into my life and you walked through it."
"That's a very dramatic story."
"Emma heard you say his name.
On the phone.
In my office.
At night."
Monica was quiet for exactly three seconds.
"She's four," she said.
"She hears things and she doesn't understand them."
"She understood enough." I leaned forward slightly.
"She understood before I did.
She was trying to protect me and I kept telling her to be patient.
That's something I'll carry for a long time." I paused.
"But I'm not here to feel guilty.
I'm here because I wanted to look at you and ask you one question."
She waited.
"The other little girl," I said.
"Paul Whitfield's daughter.
She's five years old and she's in foster care right now because of what you did to her family.
Does that matter to you at all?"
Monica held my gaze for a long moment.
Then she said, "I'd like to speak to my attorney privately."
I stood up.
Her attorney reached for his notepad.
Monica leaned toward him and said something I couldn't hear.
I was almost at the door when she spoke again.
"Daniel."
I stopped.
Didn't turn around.
"You should ask your brother," she said, "how he knew Gerald Foss."
I turned then.
Her expression was completely still.
Watching me the way she had watched Emma across the room the night the police came.
"My brother," I said.
"He attended the same group," she said.
"Two years before you.
He never lost a spouse.
But he was there." A pause.
"Ask him why."
I walked out.
In the hallway, I stood against the wall and breathed.
May you like
Then I called my brother.
He didn't pick up.
