Chapter 7: What Patricia Holt Said
Patricia Holt's office was on the fourth floor of a building downtown, with a window that looked out over a parking structure and a coffee cart on the sidewalk below.
She was in her late fifties, with reading glasses pushed up on her head and a yellow legal pad on the desk in front of her.
She had already printed my photographs.
They were in a neat stack to her left.
"I've reviewed what you sent," she said.
"Before we talk strategy, I want to make sure I understand the full picture.
How long have you been married?"
"Nine years."
"Joint assets?"
"The house.
Two cars.
A shared investment account.
His pension through his employer."
"Children?"
"One.
Bennett.
He's seven."
She made a note.
"And the secondary account — the one funding the Aldermoor Lane property.
You discovered this yourself?"
"Last night."
"Does your husband know you've found it?"
"No."
She nodded slowly.
"That's useful." She picked up the top photograph — the lease — and looked at it again.
"Six years of payments from a marital asset to fund a separate household.
That's not a gray area.
That's dissipation of marital funds.
It will matter."
"What does that mean practically?"
"It means that money — all of it, every payment for six years — will be factored into the division of assets.
The court doesn't look kindly on one spouse systematically diverting shared funds to support a separate relationship." She set the photograph down.
"It also means you are in a stronger position than you might think you are walking in here today."
I looked at the stack of photographs.
Twelve pages.
Six years.
"He said he wants to fix things," I told her.
"Do you?"
"No." The word came out without hesitation.
It surprised me slightly.
"No.
I don't think I do."
She wrote something on her legal pad.
"Then we proceed with filing.
I'll need full documentation of all joint accounts, the mortgage, his employment details, and any other assets you're aware of.
What you've already sent is a strong start."
"There's something else," I said.
She looked up.
"He has a daughter.
With the other woman.
She's four."
Patricia Holt was quiet for a moment.
"Does he acknowledge paternity?"
"He told me himself."
"Has he been financially supporting the child?"
"Yes.
The account statements show payments to a pediatrician and a preschool."
She made another note.
"That complicates his financial picture going forward, but it doesn't weaken yours.
If anything, it reinforces the dissipation argument." She looked at me over her reading glasses.
"I want to be straightforward with you.
This will not be simple or fast.
He will hire his own attorney.
There will be negotiation.
There may be moments where he tries to reframe the narrative — his fear, his mistakes, his desire to reconcile.
Courts have seen all of it.
What they respond to is documentation." She tapped the stack of photographs.
"You have documentation."
"What do I do in the meantime?"
"Keep gathering.
Don't discuss the case with mutual friends.
Don't make any large financial moves without telling me first.
And—" She paused.
"Don't let him back into the house without a conversation with me first.
Once he's out, it's easier to manage the process."
I nodded.
"One more thing," she said.
"Your son.
Seven years old." She looked at me steadily.
"He's going to need consistency right now.
Whatever happens between you and your husband, Bennett's routine should stay as close to normal as possible.
That will matter later — in court, and more importantly, for him."
"I know."
"Good." She closed her legal pad.
"I'll have the initial paperwork ready by end of week.
Do you have any questions?"
I thought about the lease.
The second account.
The preschool on the other side of the city.
"He renewed the lease every year," I said.
"Six times.
That means every year, he made a deliberate decision to keep going."
"Yes," Patricia said.
"It does mean that."
I stood up and picked up my bag.
"Then I don't have any questions," I said.
She walked me to the door.
In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, my phone buzzed.
A text from Daniel.
*Can we talk?
I think we should talk before you do anything.*
I read it once.
Put my phone back in my bag.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped in.
He didn't know about Patricia Holt.
He didn't know about the twelve photographs.
He didn't know that the account statements were already sitting in a lawyer's file folder with his name on the outside.
May you like
He thought he still had time to shape what happened next.
He didn't.
