Chapter 4: Not the First
My attorney's name was Patricia Hale.
She had handled my mother's estate six years ago, and I had kept her number because she was the kind of woman who answered her own phone.
She answered on the second ring.
"I already read everything you sent," she said.
"Where are you?"
"Parking garage.
Halcyon's building."
"Don't go home.
Are you listening to me?
Do not go to that house."
"I know."
"Owen filed a police report this morning.
He's claiming you took confidential company property from the residence."
I stopped walking.
"He filed a report."
"At 7:15 a.m.
He told them you removed a work folder during a domestic dispute and that he fears you'll use it to damage his professional reputation."
The concrete of the parking garage was very quiet.
One level up, a car door slammed.
"He filed before I even got to Halcyon's office," I said.
"He's trying to get ahead of it.
If he can establish that you took the folder, he reframes the whole story.
You become the one who stole from him."
"I didn't take the folder.
I photographed it."
"I know that.
Halcyon's legal team knows that.
But Owen is betting that a police report filed at 7:15 looks better than your photograph filed at 4 a.m.
He's betting on confusion."
I got into my car and sat without starting the engine.
"Patricia.
He also changed the locks last night.
His girlfriend moved in with three suitcases before sunrise.
I have doorbell footage."
"Send it."
"Already in your inbox."
A pause.
I heard her clicking through something on her end.
"Claire, I need to ask you about Dana Vale's message.
The one that said you weren't the first."
"I haven't responded to her."
"Don't.
But I need to know — do you have any idea what she meant?"
I had been thinking about it since 6:44 a.m.
I had been thinking about the supplier conference Owen attended in Phoenix eighteen months ago.
The one he came home from quieter than usual.
The one where he bought me flowers without being asked, which he had not done in years.
I had thought at the time that something had softened in him.
I had been grateful.
"There was a woman," I said slowly.
"Two years ago, maybe.
Owen's assistant mentioned her once and then never again.
Her name was Renata.
She worked for a logistics company that bid on a smaller contract.
The contract that Vantage eventually absorbed."
Patricia was very still on the other end.
"Renata," she repeated.
"I don't know her last name.
I never asked.
I told myself I was being paranoid."
"We need to find her."
"I know."
"If Owen has done this before — if there's a pattern — that changes the legal exposure significantly.
For him and potentially for Vantage."
I looked through the windshield at the concrete wall in front of me.
Someone had scratched the word *SORRY* into the paint near the exit sign.
I had no idea who had put it there or why.
It had probably been there for years.
"Patricia," I said.
"He hit me.
In our bedroom, in front of her.
He hit me and she watched and poured more champagne."
"I know.
The medical report is very clear."
"He filed a police report against me the same morning."
"Yes."
"I want that on record.
I want everything on record."
"It will be.
I'm filing for an emergency protective order this afternoon.
Given the medical documentation and the lock change, a judge will grant it.
That gives us the legal basis to compel him to vacate the property."
"He won't go quietly."
"No," Patricia said.
"He won't.
But Claire — he filed that report because he's scared.
Scared men make mistakes."
I started the engine.
"Where should I go?" I asked.
"Do you have someone you trust?
Not family connected to Owen.
A friend, a colleague."
I thought of my colleague Diane, who had the spare room she kept offering and I kept politely declining.
"Yes," I said.
"Go there.
Stay off social media.
And Claire — do not, under any circumstances, respond to Owen directly.
Every message he sends you is evidence.
Let him keep sending them."
I reversed out of the space.
My phone buzzed as I reached the exit barrier.
Not Owen this time.
Dana again.
*"I need to talk to you.
May you like
In person.
There's something he doesn't know I have."*
