Chapter 8: The Weight of Forty-One
Diana's lawyer called at 10:14 a.m.
Marcus was in the living room with Patricia when his phone rang.
He looked at the screen — an unknown number — and Patricia said, *"Put it on speaker."*
He answered.
*"Mr.
Marcus,"* said a man's voice, brisk and deliberately informal in the way of people who charge by the hour and want you to feel it.
*"My name is Douglas Frain.
I represent Diana.
I understand there was a difficult evening in your household and that emotions ran high.
My client would like to discuss a path forward that—"*
*"Mr.
Frain,"* Patricia said, *"this is Patricia Holt.
I'm representing Mr.
Marcus.
Before you continue — are you aware that police were at this address this morning and that a formal report has been filed regarding the welfare of a minor child?"*
A pause.
*"I — I was informed of certain—"*
*"Then you understand this is no longer a private family matter.
If your client would like to discuss a path forward, she should start by making herself available for questioning.
Good morning."*
She ended the call.
Marcus looked at her.
*"That was fast."*
*"They always call fast,"* she said.
*"It's not confidence.
It's panic."*
By noon, Amara had been seen by a pediatrician — a doctor the officers had arranged, not Diana's preferred practice.
The examination took forty minutes.
When it was done, the doctor came out and spoke quietly to the attending officer and to Marcus, and Marcus sat down on a waiting room chair and stared at the floor for a long time.
Renee sat beside him.
She didn't say anything.
*"How long?"* he asked, to the floor.
*"The doctor said some of the older bruising—"* Renee stopped.
Tried again.
*"Longer than you know."*
He didn't move for several seconds.
Then he said, *"She was alone in that house with her for fourteen months."*
*"Marcus—"*
*"I traveled for work.
I came home on weekends sometimes.
Sometimes not even that." He pressed his hands flat against his thighs.
"I thought she was safe.
I thought I was building something for her."*
*"You came home,"* Renee said.
*"When it mattered, you came home and you believed her.
A lot of fathers don't."*
*"That's the lowest possible bar."*
*"It's still a bar people fall short of."*
He didn't argue.
He stood up, went into the hallway, and called Diana's number.
She answered on the third ring.
*"Marcus.
I'm glad you called.
I think if we just—"*
*"Amara saw a doctor today,"* he said.
*"I need you to know that.
I need you to sit with what that means."*
Silence.
*"Marcus, whatever the doctor said—"*
*"I'm filing for divorce on Monday.
My attorney is preparing the documentation this weekend.
She'll also be working with the police on the criminal complaint.
You should expect to be contacted." He paused.
"Is there anything you want to say to me before I hang up?"*
He could hear her breathing.
*"I gave three years to your family,"* Diana said finally.
Her voice had lost the smooth, reasonable quality.
What was underneath it was harder and colder and, Marcus thought, more honest.
*"Three years of my life to a man who was never home and a child who hated me from the beginning.
I don't expect you to understand that."*
*"You're right,"* he said.
*"I don't."*
He hung up.
Patricia was behind him in the hallway.
She had heard the call.
*"That last part,"* Marcus said.
*"About the three years.
Is that useful?"*
*"It is,"* Patricia said.
*"And she called Amara 'a child who hated me.' Not 'my stepdaughter.' Not by name."* She made a note.
*"Jurors notice things like that."*
Marcus pocketed his phone.
*"What happens now?"*
*"Now she has to decide how to respond to a criminal complaint, a divorce filing, a medical report, and forty-one videos."* Patricia looked at him steadily.
*"Most people, at that point, stop fighting and start bargaining."*
*"And if she doesn't?"*
*"Then she goes to trial.
May you like
And a jury watches the videos."* She said it simply, without drama.
*"Either way, it ends the same."*
