Chapter 6: What the Folder Contained
Patrice called at 7:58.
"Tell me everything," she said.
"Don't leave anything out."
I told her.
All of it — the garage, the car, the note, the phone call, Brian at the kitchen table, Dana's call after midnight, the folder.
When I finished, Patrice was quiet for exactly three seconds.
"He threatened her with custody to keep her quiet," she said.
"Yes."
"While married to you."
"Yes."
"And she has documentation."
"She says she does.
Texts, emails, voicemails."
"Okay." I heard her writing.
"Here's what I need you to do today.
Don't move anything from the garage.
Don't touch the car, the booster seat, or the note.
I want a record of the physical evidence exactly as you found it.
Can you take photographs before anything changes?"
"I already did.
Last night."
A pause.
"Good.
That's good." More writing.
"I'm going to reach out to Dana's attorney — does she have one?"
"I don't think so.
She said she didn't."
"Then I'll reach out to her directly with your permission and refer her to someone I trust.
Her documentation needs to be handled properly if it's going to be useful." She paused.
"How are you doing?
Not legally.
Actually."
I looked out the kitchen window.
The morning was gray and flat.
"I keep thinking about the note," I said.
"The one Lily wrote.
She practiced those letters."
"I know."
"She didn't do anything wrong."
"No," Patrice said.
"She didn't.
And a good outcome here protects her too.
Brian being held accountable is not the same as Lily losing a father.
Those are two separate things."
"He said he'd fight Dana for custody if she talked."
"He said that when he thought he had all the leverage." Patrice's voice was steady.
"He doesn't have all the leverage anymore."
We talked for another forty minutes.
By the end I had a list of things to do, a temporary plan for the house, and an appointment at her office the following morning.
After I hung up, I sat with my coffee and thought about Brian.
He had texted twice since leaving.
The first text, sent at 1 a.m.: *We should talk before you do anything.
Please.* The second, sent at 6 a.m.: *I made mistakes.
I know that.
But we can work through this if you give me the chance.*
I read both messages.
I didn't reply.
At noon, my phone rang.
Not Brian.
A number I didn't know.
I answered.
"Is this the wife?" A woman's voice.
Clipped.
Confident.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Renata.
I'm a friend of Brian's.
A close friend." A deliberate pause.
"I think you and I should meet."
"I don't know you," I said.
"No.
But I know quite a bit about you.
And I know quite a bit about Brian.
And I think before you do something that can't be undone, you should hear what I have to say."
I set my coffee down.
"Are you calling on his behalf?"
"I'm calling on my own behalf." Her tone didn't shift.
"Brian doesn't know I'm calling.
And if you repeat this conversation to him, I'll deny it."
"Then why are you calling?"
A pause.
When she spoke again, the confidence had a different edge to it — not aggressive.
Almost careful.
"Because I've watched him do this before," she said.
"And the last woman didn't have anyone in her corner.
I'd like this time to be different."
May you like
My hand was very still on the phone.
"Tell me what you know," I said.
