Chapter 4: The Woman Who Answered the Phone
I didn't sleep well.
I lay in the dark listening to the sound of three children breathing through the baby monitor I still kept on my nightstand — a habit I had never managed to break — and I thought about Daniel Carter's voice on that recording.
*Good.
Then we're done with her.*
I had recognized it the first time I heard the recording, five years ago.
I had sat in my sister's kitchen at two in the morning with a pen and a notepad and written down every name, every phrase, every timestamp.
I had made three copies of the file and stored them in three separate places.
What I had not done — not once in five years — was act on it.
I had been waiting for the right moment.
My phone rang at seven-fifteen the next morning.
Not Sebastian.
My lawyer, Carol Reyes.
Hannah, she said.
I need you to come in today.
What happened?
Sebastian Carter's legal team contacted my office this morning.
They're filing for an emergency paternity hearing.
I sat up.
On whose instruction?
That's the interesting part, Carol said.
It wasn't Sebastian.
The filing came from a secondary representative.
Someone acting on behalf of the Carter family trust.
I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway.
Who signed it?
Daniel Carter.
I got the children dressed, dropped them at school, and was in Carol's office by nine.
She slid a document across her desk.
I read the first paragraph twice.
They're not just asking for paternity confirmation, I said.
No, Carol said.
They're also petitioning for an emergency custody evaluation.
The language here suggests the children may be living in an unstable environment.
I set the document down.
They filed this the morning after Sebastian heard the recording.
Carol folded her hands.
Which means someone made a call last night, she said.
And it wasn't Sebastian.
Olivia, I said.
Or Daniel.
Or both.
I looked at the document again.
One line near the bottom had been highlighted in yellow.
*Petitioner reserves the right to introduce additional evidence regarding the mother's financial history and business conduct.*
They're going after Little Harvest Kitchen, I said.
Carol nodded slowly.
If they can make the business look unstable, they can argue the children's environment is unstable.
It's a pressure tactic.
They want you to settle quietly before this reaches a judge.
What do they want in a settlement?
She slid a second page across the desk.
I read it.
Full legal acknowledgment that Sebastian Carter is the biological father.
Immediate joint custody arrangement.
Relocation of the children to the Carter family's primary residence in Lincoln Park for alternating weeks.
And—
I stopped at the last line.
A non-disclosure agreement covering all events prior to the date of settlement, I said.
Carol watched me.
They want the recording buried, I said.
That would be my reading, yes.
I pushed both pages back across the desk.
Counter-file, I said.
I want a formal fraud complaint attached to the paternity response.
I want the recording submitted as evidence.
And I want Daniel Carter's name on the filing.
Carol picked up her pen.
If we do this, she said, it becomes public.
The Carter family will push back hard.
I know, I said.
She wrote something on her notepad.
There's one more thing, she said.
The man who submitted the filing this morning — Daniel's representative.
He's a partner at Hargrove and Laine.
I recognized the name.
It was the same firm that had sent a lawyer to my hospital room five years ago.
Carol looked at me steadily.
They've been planning this longer than last night, she said.
I stood up and put on my coat.
I know, I said again.
So have I.
My phone buzzed as I reached the door.
A message from a number I didn't recognize.
*Ms.
Reyes isn't the only one who knows what's on that recording.
Meet me at the coffee shop on Dearborn and Erie.
Noon.
Come alone.
— M*
I stared at the message for a long moment.
Then I forwarded it to Carol without responding.
She called me back in under a minute.
Hannah, she said.
Do you know anyone with the initial M who has access to that recording?
No, I said.
A short silence.
Then who does?
May you like
she asked.
That was the question I couldn't answer.
