Chapter 5: The Four O'Clock Call
I took the call in my old bedroom, door locked, sitting on the edge of the bed I'd slept in all through high school.
The wallpaper was the same.
Pale yellow with small white flowers.
Mara had picked it out.
She'd always had better taste.
"Patricia Voss."
"Pat, it's Nora Callahan.
Thank you for picking up."
"Of course.
Talk to me."
I talked.
I laid it out the way I'd been trained to — chronologically, specifically, without editorializing.
The bruises.
The pattern.
The messages sent from Mara's phone.
The OB appointment canceled.
The job resigned.
The friend cut off.
The pregnancy.
Patricia was quiet through all of it.
I could hear her pen moving.
"How far along is she?" she asked when I finished.
"Twenty-two weeks."
"Is she willing to cooperate?"
"She's scared.
But she asked what time you were free.
That's the most willing she's been in however long this has been happening."
"How long do you think it's been happening?"
"The bruise I saw today was new.
The one on her arm was at least two weeks old, maybe three.
But the pattern of isolation — the job, the doctor, the friend — that takes planning.
That takes months.
Maybe longer."
"Does he know you're suspicious?"
"He knows I saw the bruise.
He tried to manage me at lunch.
He's smart and he's controlled and he's used to people backing down."
"Will he back down?"
"No."
"Good," Patricia said.
"The ones who fight back make better cases." I heard her chair shift.
"Here's what I need.
I need Mara to come in — ideally this week.
I need those screenshots you took.
I need her to be photographed by a medical professional who can document the injuries.
And I need to know whether she has access to any financial accounts he doesn't control."
"I don't know about the finances."
"Find out.
Quietly.
If he controls all the money, we need to move faster."
"How fast?"
"If she's willing and the documentation is solid, I can file for an emergency protective order within seventy-two hours.
That gets him out of the house and gives us a foundation for the custody argument before the baby arrives."
I pressed my hand flat against the yellow wallpaper.
"He'll retaliate."
"They always do.
That's why we move first." A pause.
"Nora.
You did the right thing calling me.
But I need her to make this choice herself.
I can't build a case on a client who isn't ready to fight."
"I know."
"Can you get her ready?"
I thought about Mara's face at the kitchen window.
The way she'd said *what time did you say she was free* — not asking permission, just asking the fact, like she was already calculating something.
"Yes," I said.
"I think I can."
We hung up at 4:18.
I sat on the bed for a moment, looking at the yellow wallpaper.
Then I unlocked the door and walked down the hall.
Mara was in her old room, the one next to mine, sitting on the window seat with her knees drawn up as far as her bump would allow.
She looked about sixteen years old.
"Well?" she said.
I sat in the chair across from her and told her everything Patricia had said.
All of it.
I didn't soften it.
When I finished, Mara was quiet for a long time.
"Seventy-two hours," she said.
"If you're ready."
"And he'd have to leave the house?"
"If the order is granted.
Yes."
She looked out the window.
Cole and the others were still outside.
We could hear his voice, faint and easy, talking about something that made everyone laugh.
"He told me once," Mara said slowly, "that if I ever tried to leave, he'd tell everyone I was having an affair.
That the baby wasn't his." Her voice didn't shake.
It was past shaking.
"He said he'd get a paternity test and drag it through court for years."
"He can try."
"Nora—"
"Let him try.
Patricia has handled worse." I leaned forward.
"Mara.
He has been sending messages from your phone.
Pretending to be you.
To your doctor.
To your employer.
That is not a man who is confident.
That is a man who is terrified of what happens when you have support."
She turned from the window.
"I'm scared," she said.
"I know."
"What if it gets worse before it gets better?"
"It probably will," I said.
"I won't lie to you about that."
Her eyes searched my face.
"But you'll be there?"
"Every step."
Downstairs, the back door opened.
Cole's voice moved into the kitchen, calling up cheerfully: "Mara?
We're thinking of heading out soon, sweetheart."
Mara looked at me.
Something settled in her expression.
Something that had been loose and frightened pulled tight and decided.
"Tell him I'll be down in a minute," she said quietly.
I stood and went to the top of the stairs.
"She'll be right down," I called.
Cole appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with that smooth, practiced smile.
"Everything okay up there?"
"Perfect," I said.
"We were just catching up."
He held my gaze for exactly two seconds longer than necessary.
Then he turned back toward the kitchen.
I went back to Mara's doorway.
She was already standing, smoothing her dress, one hand resting on her bump.
"Monday," she said.
May you like
"I'll come to you Monday."
"I'll be ready," I said.
