Chapter 9: The Investigator's Offer
I put the phone on speaker without asking Nathan.
He leaned in without being asked.
"Mr.
Garrett," I said.
"You've been photographing my daughter outside her school."
A brief pause.
"I've been conducting an investigation on behalf of a client.
That investigation has involved documenting—"
"My twelve-year-old daughter," I said.
"Outside her school.
Without my knowledge or consent."
"Mrs.
Calloway, I understand this feels intrusive—"
"It doesn't feel intrusive.
It is intrusive.
And I want you to understand something very clearly." I kept my voice even.
"I've already spoken to my attorney.
She's aware of your name, your card, and the approach you made to Nathan's brother.
If you or your client take any further steps involving my daughter directly, we will pursue every legal option available to us."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"I'm not calling to escalate," Garrett said.
"I'm calling because my client asked me to pass along a message."
"Then pass it."
"He wants to meet.
In person.
No attorneys.
Just a conversation."
Nathan shook his head slightly.
"No," I said.
"Mrs.
Calloway—"
"If Creighton Hale wants to communicate with me, he can do it through his attorney, who can communicate with my attorney.
That's how this works."
"He's not looking for a legal battle," Garrett said.
"He genuinely wants—"
"Mr.
Garrett." My voice was quiet now.
Quieter than before.
"A man who genuinely wants to reconnect with a child he abandoned does not hire a private investigator to photograph that child and approach estranged family members for damaging statements.
Those are not the actions of someone who wants a conversation.
They are the actions of someone building a case." I paused.
"Tell your client that message has been received.
And tell him that if he comes anywhere near my daughter without a court order, I will make sure every judge in this proceeding knows exactly how this campaign began."
Silence.
"I'll pass that along," Garrett said finally.
The call ended.
Nathan exhaled slowly beside me.
"That was—" he started.
"Don't," I said.
My hands were shaking slightly now that it was over.
I pressed them flat against my thighs.
"I need a minute."
He gave me one.
When I started the car, my hands were steady again.
That afternoon, I forwarded the old email to Patricia.
She replied within the hour: *Good.
This helps us.
I'll be in touch.*
That evening, I made Sophie's favorite dinner.
Pasta with the sauce she liked, the one that took forty minutes.
She sat at the counter while I cooked and told me about a girl at school who had done something funny at lunch, and I listened to every word, and I laughed in the right places, and I did not think about Creighton Hale for the entire forty minutes.
That was the best I could do that night.
Three days later, Patricia called.
"Creighton's team filed a motion," she said.
"They're requesting a preliminary hearing.
They want it fast."
"How fast?"
"Six weeks."
Six weeks.
"There's something else," Patricia said.
"They've submitted an affidavit in support of the motion.
It's from a witness who claims to have observed what they're describing as an unstable home environment."
"Who?" I asked.
Patricia said a name I did not recognize.
May you like
Then she said where the witness lived.
It was the same street as Sophie's school.
