Chapter 9: The Attorney
Her name was Patricia Holt.
Dana had her number on my phone by seven the next morning with a single message: *She's the one you want.
She doesn't lose.*
I called at eight.
Patricia picked up herself — no assistant, no voicemail — and listened to the full story without interrupting.
When I finished, she asked four questions in quick succession: Did I have the physical doll.
Did I have the officers' names and badge numbers.
Had I kept the original note from the counter.
Did I have the files Cassandra had sent.
"Yes to all four," I said.
"Good." A brief pause.
"Mrs.
Callahan, based on what you've described, your husband and mother-in-law have potentially committed forgery of a legal document, unauthorized detention of a minor, and conspiracy to use fabricated evidence in a custody proceeding.
That is not a small thing.
That is not something a good attorney on their side makes disappear."
"What do I do first?"
"You do nothing that looks like retaliation.
You go to work, you care for your daughter, you speak to no one in that family without me present.
You send me everything Cassandra provided today, and I will have it reviewed before the end of the week." She paused again.
"And you file for an emergency protective order this afternoon.
I'll have the paperwork ready by noon."
I was standing in Ruth's kitchen.
Through the doorway I could hear Mia in the spare room, talking to Rosie in the low, serious voice she used when she was explaining important things to the doll.
"Will the protective order hold?" I asked.
"Given what happened yesterday and the evidence you have, yes.
It will name both Lorraine and Jackson pending the investigation." A beat.
"Your husband is going to be very angry."
"He's already angry."
"Good," Patricia said.
"Angry people make mistakes.
Let him."
Jackson called twice while I was on the phone with Patricia.
I let both calls go to voicemail.
The first message was short — *Emily, we need to talk before this gets out of hand* — and the second was longer, his voice tighter, something beneath the surface of it that I had heard before but always chosen not to name.
I played them both for Patricia before I ended the call.
"Don't respond," she said.
"Forward them to me."
I did.
By noon I was sitting in Patricia's office on the fourth floor of a building downtown, signing paperwork at a clean glass desk while she walked me through each document.
She was in her late fifties, precise and unhurried, with the kind of calm that comes from having seen worse and won anyway.
When we were done, she looked at me directly.
"I want to ask you something, and I want you to answer honestly."
"Okay."
"Is there anything in your history — work, personal, medical — that Jackson's attorney could use to support a narrative about instability or poor judgment?"
I thought about it carefully.
"I've been treated for anxiety.
Briefly, three years ago, before Mia was born.
I stopped when the pregnancy was confirmed because I wanted to manage it without medication."
Patricia wrote something down.
"That's not a problem.
That's a mother being careful." She looked up.
"Anything else?"
"No."
"Then here's what they have," she said.
"A forged document.
A child found in a locked room.
A recorded plan to manufacture evidence of instability.
And a co-conspirator who has already turned over the communications." She set her pen down.
"Mrs.
Callahan, I've seen cases where the other side had something to work with.
This is not one of those cases."
I exhaled slowly.
"Go be with your daughter," Patricia said.
"Let me do the rest."
I stood to leave.
At the door I stopped and turned back.
"The attorney Lorraine hired," I said.
"The one who specializes in questioning a parent's mental stability.
Can you find out who it is?"
Patricia smiled for the first time.
May you like
It was a small smile, precise and certain.
"Already have," she said.
