Chapter 9: Her Last Weapon
The email had no attachment.
No name.
No way to trace it.
I read it three times standing at the fuel station while Daniel filled the tank and Robert waited in the car with Lily.
A medical evaluation.
My name.
Three years ago.
Three years ago, Lily was two.
I had gone through a difficult period after a miscarriage we had never told the family about.
My own doctor had referred me to a counselor.
I had attended six sessions.
It was private.
It was documented.
And it was exactly the kind of thing that, taken out of context, could be made to look like something it wasn't.
Daniel came around the car.
He read my face before I said a word.
"What is it?"
I showed him the message.
He read it.
Then he looked up.
"She got your medical records."
"She must have.
Or she had someone get them."
"That's illegal."
"So is having your husband committed and stealing his estate." I put the phone in my pocket.
"She's going to use it Monday.
She's going to stand in that courtroom and say I have a documented history of emotional instability.
She's going to use it to support the custody motion and to undermine my credibility as a witness."
Daniel was quiet.
"She planned this from the beginning," I said.
"Long before today.
She's been building the case for years."
"Then we tell Patricia tonight."
"Patricia can challenge the legality of how she obtained them.
But the records exist.
A judge will want to know what they say."
"What do they say?"
I looked at him.
"That I attended six counseling sessions after a pregnancy loss.
That I was grieving.
That I was, in the counselor's words, emotionally resilient but in need of support."
"That's not instability."
"It isn't.
But Margaret won't present it that way."
We got back in the car.
I called Patricia from the road and told her everything.
She was quiet for a moment.
"Do you still have contact with the counselor?" she asked.
"Yes.
Dr.
Renata Webb.
She's in the same practice."
"Call her tonight.
I need a statement from her describing the nature and outcome of your sessions.
If Margaret presents those records on Monday, I want Dr.
Webb's statement ready to follow immediately."
"She may not be reachable on a Sunday."
"Try.
If she can't provide a formal statement by Monday morning, I'll request a continuance on that specific point.
But I'd rather not give Foss any more time."
I called Dr.
Webb at eight that evening.
She answered from what sounded like her kitchen.
I explained the situation in two minutes.
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, "I'll have a statement to your attorney by seven tomorrow morning.
And for what it's worth — what you went through after that loss was completely normal.
Anyone who tries to use it against you in a courtroom is going to have a very hard time explaining why grief is a character flaw."
I thanked her.
I sat with the phone in my lap for a moment after the call ended.
Mark was in the next room, going through the billing records with Patricia's paralegal over video call.
Robert was asleep in the guest room — the first real sleep, Claire had said, he'd had in months.
Lily was in the bath, singing something tuneless and cheerful.
Daniel sat down beside me.
"She thought she had you," he said.
"She almost did."
"But she didn't know about the miscarriage.
She found the records but she didn't know what was in them.
She was guessing it was worse than it is."
"She was hoping," I said.
He took my hand.
It was a simple thing.
He had done it a thousand times before.
But it felt different now — deliberate, chosen.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For the months I doubted.
For the times I let her talk and didn't push back.
For not seeing what she was doing to you."
I didn't tell him it was fine.
It wasn't fine.
"I know," I said instead.
He nodded.
That was enough.
Lily came out of the bathroom in her pajamas, her hair damp, trailing her towel behind her.
"Is Grandpa still sleeping?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Good," she said seriously.
"He needs it."
She climbed up between us on the sofa and leaned her head against my arm.
Outside, the Sunday night was quiet.
May you like
Monday was twelve hours away.
And Margaret, somewhere across the city, was preparing the last thing she had left.
