Chapter 9: Tuesday
Patricia's office was on the fourth floor of a building downtown, small and tidy, with a window that looked out over the street below.
She was younger than I expected — maybe forty — with reading glasses pushed up on her head and a yellow legal pad already open on the desk when I came in.
She listened to everything without writing anything down.
When I finished, she picked up her pen.
"The account is the clearest issue," she said.
"Joint account, disproportionate withdrawals, documented timeline.
That's recoverable."
"He said he'd want reimbursement."
"He can say that.
What he withdrew versus what he deposited is a matter of record." She made a note.
"The screenshot your sister sent — do you still have it?"
"I forwarded it to myself and to my mother."
"Good.
Keep it.
I want a copy." She set the pen down.
"Now.
The lease."
"My name only."
"Good.
He has no legal claim to the apartment.
If he attempts to re-enter without your permission, that's trespass." She looked at me over her glasses.
"Has he attempted to come back?"
"Not yet."
"If he does, call me first, then the police if necessary." She picked up the pen again.
"The ring."
"I have it."
"Purchased by him?"
"Yes.
For me."
"Keep it for now.
We'll deal with that separately if he raises it." She made another note.
"The emergency contact change at his workplace — do you have documentation of that?"
"Diane told me verbally.
I don't have paperwork."
"Would Diane be willing to provide a written statement?"
I thought about Diane's voice on the phone.
The careful way she'd spoken.
The fact that she had called at all.
"I think so.
Yes."
"Good." Patricia set the pen down and looked at me directly.
"Nicole, I want to be honest with you.
Most of what he did to you — the deception, the emotional harm, the months of lying — none of that is actionable in a straightforward legal sense.
What is actionable is the money.
The account withdrawals are clear.
If he pursues any kind of claim, we counter with that record and he has very little ground to stand on."
"What about Kayla?"
Patricia was quiet for a moment.
"What would you want from Kayla?"
I thought about it.
Really thought about it, sitting in that chair with the street noise coming up faintly from below.
"Nothing," I said finally.
"I don't want anything from her.
I just want her out of my life."
Patricia nodded slowly.
"Then that's what we focus on."
She walked me through the next steps — a formal letter to Brandon regarding the account, a cease-and-desist if he attempted to contact me again directly, documentation of everything.
She was calm and specific and didn't waste words.
I liked her immediately.
When I stood to leave, she shook my hand.
"One more thing," she said.
"The screenshot your sister sent you.
The part about your daughter."
I nodded.
"That conversation establishes that both of them were aware of your condition, aware that your daughter could be left without a guardian, and their primary concern was positioning themselves." She paused.
"If you ever need to establish character in any proceeding — custody, anything involving Lily — that document matters."
I hadn't thought about Lily in those terms.
I hadn't needed to.
But I understood what Patricia was telling me.
"I'll keep it," I said.
"Keep everything," she said.
I took the elevator down and walked out into the afternoon.
It was a clear day, cold enough to see my breath.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment and looked up at the sky.
Then I called my mother.
"How was she?" my mother asked immediately.
"Good.
Really good." I started walking.
"She said the account is recoverable."
"Of course it is." A pause.
"And Kayla?"
"I told her I don't want anything from Kayla.
I just want her gone."
My mother was quiet for a moment.
"Is that really true?"
I thought about it again, walking.
The ring in my jacket pocket that morning — I had moved it to my dresser drawer before I left.
The screenshot.
Kayla's face in the bedroom, relieved.
"Yes," I said.
"I think it is."
"All right," my mother said.
Then: "Lily called me this morning.
She wanted to know if you were okay."
"I know.
I talked to her before school."
"She's a good girl, Nicole."
"She is," I said.
"She really is."
I walked the rest of the way to the subway in the cold air, hands in my pockets, breathing carefully around my ribs.
The city moved around me the way it always did — loud and indifferent and continuous.
I had a lawyer.
I had documentation.
I had my mother and I had my daughter.
May you like
I had, I realized, everything I actually needed.
What I did not have yet was any idea that Brandon had made one more move — one I hadn't seen coming — the night before my appointment with Patricia.
