CHAPTER 1: The Children Who Were Made to Serve

I didn't go that night.

I put the children to bed in Diane's spare room — Jacob still half-asleep, Rebecca quiet, Samuel asking no questions, which was its own kind of question — and I sat at Diane's kitchen table until past midnight, on the phone with a solicitor named Patricia Okafor that a colleague had recommended to me two years ago for a different matter entirely.

Patricia listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.

"The letter," she said.

"The handwritten one.

Is it in your father's hand?"

"Yes."

"And the bank statements show a consistent pattern over six years?"

"Every month.

Same amount.

Same destination account."

"All right.

Don't contact your father tonight.

Don't contact Robert at all.

And don't return any money or make any transfers in the next seventy-two hours regardless of what either of them says to you." A pause.

"Can you bring everything to my office tomorrow morning?"

"Yes."

"Nine o'clock.

Bring your sister if she's willing to come."

I looked at Diane across the table.

She had heard enough.

She nodded.

"She'll be there," I said.

I slept on Diane's sofa.

I didn't sleep well.

At six in the morning I was already awake, sitting with a cup of tea, when my phone lit up again.

This time it was my mother.

I answered.

"Marcus." Her voice was careful.

Measured.

The same voice she had used my entire childhood when she wanted something and was deciding how to ask for it.

"Your father is very upset."

"Is he."

"What you did yesterday — in front of all those people — "

"What I did," I said, "was stop my four-year-old son from wiping strangers' plates."

A silence.

"Your father wants to explain the financial situation to you properly.

He says you've gotten the wrong idea."

"I haven't gotten any idea yet, Mum.

I've gotten documents."

Another silence.

Longer.

"Where did you get documents?" she said.

And for the first time, her voice shifted.

Just slightly.

The measurement went out of it.

"Come to the meeting tomorrow," I said.

"Patricia Okafor's office.

Nine o'clock.

I'll send you the address."

"Marcus, I don't think a solicitor is — "

"Nine o'clock," I said, and ended the call.

Patricia's office was on the third floor of a building in the center of town.

She was a small woman with close-cropped hair and reading glasses pushed up on her forehead, and she read through every document in the envelope without speaking for eleven minutes.

Then she set the last page down and looked at me.

"Your father is exposed here," she said.

"Significantly.

But Robert is more exposed.

The letter establishes that Robert knew the source of the funds and represented the business as viable to secure continued transfers.

Combined with the filing discrepancies — " she tapped the statements — "this is a strong foundation."

"For what?" Diane said.

"A civil claim, at minimum.

Potentially a referral to the financial authorities depending on what further investigation shows." She looked at me.

"I want to be honest with you.

Your father's involvement complicates things emotionally.

But it does not complicate things legally.

He was a participant."

"I know," I said.

"Is your goal to recover the money?

To pursue Robert specifically?

Both?"

"Both," I said.

"And I want it on record.

I don't want this quietly settled and forgotten."

Patricia nodded slowly.

"Then we proceed formally." She picked up her pen.

"I'll draft a letter of notice to Robert today.

It will inform him that we are in possession of documentation relating to the transfer of funds and the representation of Harland Property Solutions, and that we intend to pursue recovery."

"When will he receive it?"

"Tomorrow.

Possibly the day after."

Diane's hand found mine on the arm of the chair.

"And my parents?" I said.

Patricia looked at me carefully.

"That depends on how they respond when they understand what you have." She paused.

"In my experience, people in your father's position make one of two choices when they realize the evidence is real.

They cooperate, or they panic."

My phone buzzed on her desk.

A message from a number I didn't recognize.

*Back off.