Chapter 5: The Lawyer and the Counter-Move
The lawyer's name was Patricia Osei.
David had met her two years earlier at a work function and kept her card in his wallet without ever expecting to use it.
She answered on the second ring.
"David.
What's happened?"
He told her.
Not everything — there wasn't time — but enough.
The bank transfers.
The property.
The photograph.
Emma's text about the children.
Patricia listened without interrupting.
When David finished, she said, "Don't go home yet.
Don't respond to that text.
Give me twenty minutes."
She called back in seventeen.
"Here's where you stand," she said.
David had put her on speaker so I could hear.
"The property transfer is the most urgent issue.
If it was done without your signature, that's fraud.
If you signed something and didn't understand what you were signing, that's also actionable.
I need to see the documents."
"I can have them to you within the hour," David said.
"Good.
Second — the text about the children.
She can take them to her mother's.
She's allowed to do that.
But she cannot prevent you from seeing them without a court order, and she doesn't have one.
If she tries to use the children as leverage, that becomes relevant to any custody arrangement later.
Document everything from this point forward.
Every message, every call, every threat."
David was writing on the back of an envelope.
His handwriting was tight and small, the way it always got when he was concentrating hard.
"Third," Patricia said, "do not confront her about Marcus Hale yet.
I know that feels wrong.
But the moment she knows the full extent of what you have, she will start moving things.
Money, documents, whatever she can reach.
Right now she knows about the photograph and the bank statement you received this morning.
She does not know about the property records or the email chain.
Keep it that way until I tell you otherwise."
"Understood," David said.
"One more thing." A brief pause.
"Is your mother with you?"
"Yes," David said.
"Good.
She should stay involved.
From what you've described, she's been the most careful person in this situation." Another pause.
"Tell her thank you."
David looked at me across the table.
His eyes were still red.
"She heard you," he said.
After he hung up, we sat quietly for a moment.
Outside, a car passed slowly on the road.
I found myself watching it until it was gone.
"She's going to fight," David said.
"I know."
"She's going to say I turned you against her.
That you've always hated her.
That this is all about control."
"She's been saying that for years," I said.
"To anyone who would listen.
I'm aware."
David looked at me.
"Did you know she told people you tried to interfere in our wedding?
That you threatened to cut off money if she didn't change the venue?"
"No," I said.
"I didn't know that."
"She told her whole family.
Her mother still believes it." He shook his head.
"I defended you every time.
I told them it wasn't true.
But after a while I started to wonder if I was missing something.
If maybe I was too close to see it."
"And now?" I asked.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Now I'm sitting in your kitchen looking at twenty-two thousand dollars in transfers and a property deed with only one name on it." He folded his hands on the table.
"I'm not wondering anymore."
His phone buzzed again.
Another text from Emma.
He read it.
This time, something in his expression shifted — not grief, not anger, but a cold, careful alertness.
"She says she's already spoken to a solicitor," he said.
He turned the phone so I could see the screen.
*I've already talked to someone.
You should know that everything in that house is documented as mine.
Every receipt, every purchase, every improvement.
I kept records.
Did you?*
I read it twice.
"She's been planning this," I said.
"For a long time," David said.
He set the phone down.
"The question is how long."
He picked up the manila folder again and turned to the email chain — the one I hadn't put in the envelope, the one I had been holding back.
He read it slowly, page by page.
Halfway through, he stopped.
"This email," he said.
He pointed to a date at the top of the page.
"This is from four years ago."
"Yes," I said.
He looked up.
"The kids were still babies."
"Yes," I said again.
His hand was very still on the paper.
"She was planning this before Sophie could even walk," he said.
The room held that sentence for a long moment.
Then his phone rang.
May you like
Not Emma this time.
It was her mother.
