Chapter 8: The Solicitor
Her name was Patricia Hale.
She had an office above a pharmacy on the high street, small and practical, with a window that looked out onto the car park.
She shook my hand, offered me tea, and when I said no, she opened a notepad and said: "Tell me everything, from the beginning."
I told her.
She didn't interrupt.
She wrote steadily, asked two or three precise questions, and when I finished she set her pen down and looked at her notes.
"The beneficial interest claim is real," she said.
"It's not guaranteed to succeed, but it's not frivolous either.
Seven years of documented financial contribution to a marital home creates a legitimate legal argument."
"Can he win?"
"He can make a case.
Whether he wins depends on several things." She tapped her notepad.
"The will.
The exact wording of how the property was transferred to you.
Whether there was any written agreement at the time of marriage about the house remaining solely yours.
And the financial records — what he paid, when, and whether those payments were framed as contributions or gifts."
"He paid some renovation invoices directly.
He said it was easier."
"Did he ever say, in writing or in front of witnesses, that those payments were gifts to you rather than contributions to a shared asset?"
I thought back.
"Not that I remember."
"That's the gap he's trying to use." She was matter-of-fact about it, which I appreciated.
"His solicitor will argue that a reasonable person contributing financially to a home for seven years had a reasonable expectation of shared ownership, regardless of the legal title."
"And what do we argue?"
"We argue intent.
We argue the will.
We argue that the property was a specific inheritance and that both parties understood its nature." She paused.
"And we use the text message."
I looked up.
"The screenshot Vanessa sent you.
*Once it's done, we list the house.
Split the proceeds.*" Patricia's voice was even.
"That establishes that his goal was liquidation of the asset, not occupation of the family home.
It undermines any argument that he simply wanted to protect his right to stay in a home he'd contributed to.
He wanted to sell it and divide the money."
"Does that help us?"
"It helps us significantly." She made a note.
"I'll need you to preserve that screenshot and send it to me directly.
Don't delete anything.
Don't contact Nathan about the legal matter directly from this point forward.
Everything goes through me."
"He's still technically living there."
"For now.
We can address that." She looked at me steadily.
"He has no right to remove you or your son from the property.
You are the legal owner.
If he becomes difficult, we have options."
I nodded.
"One more thing," she said.
"The card.
The one from the party."
"I have it."
"Good.
Keep it somewhere safe.
It may not be central to the property dispute, but if custody becomes contested, it speaks to intent and character." She paused.
"Did he say anything at the party that was witnessed by others?
About the house, the trip, the plan?"
"Vanessa spoke in front of at least four or five people.
She said he'd told her I'd agreed to the divorce.
That the plan was to serve me with papers while I was traveling."
"Names of the witnesses?"
"I can get them."
"Do that." Patricia closed her notepad.
"You came home at the right moment.
Another month and this would have been considerably harder."
I sat with that for a second.
"He nearly pulled it off," I said.
"Yes," she said simply.
"He nearly did."
I drove home slowly.
The afternoon was grey and quiet.
Lucas would be out of school in an hour.
I had to be there for pickup, had to make dinner, had to get through the evening like a normal evening.
When I pulled into the driveway, Nathan's car was gone.
But there was an envelope on the doorstep.
No stamp.
May you like
Hand-delivered.
My name on the front in handwriting I didn't recognize.
