Chapter 5: The Attorney, the Ex-Wife, and the Email
Her name was Patricia Osei, and she had a reputation for being the kind of divorce attorney that opposing counsel quietly dreaded.
My colleague had described her as someone who didn't raise her voice because she never needed to.
I called her at seven-thirty that evening.
She answered on the third ring.
"Daniel Marsh," I said.
"I was referred by a colleague — Tom Reeves."
"I remember Tom," she said.
"Tell me the situation."
I told her everything.
The asset transfers.
The holding company.
The investigator's report.
The photographs.
The trust amendment.
Victoria's comment about emails.
Patricia was quiet for a moment.
"The email claim is a pressure tactic.
If fabricated emails existed, she wouldn't have mentioned them tonight — she'd have saved them for discovery.
She told you because she wants you scared and slow."
"That's what I thought."
"Don't be either," she said.
"Can you be in my office tomorrow at nine?"
"Yes."
"Bring everything her grandfather gave you.
Original documents, not photographs of them.
And Daniel — don't touch the joint account tonight.
Don't move anything, don't withdraw anything.
The moment you do, it becomes a counter-narrative."
"Understood."
"One more thing," she said.
"Is there anything in that house — a laptop, a shared email account, a device she had regular access to — that she could have used to send something in your name?"
I thought about it.
There was a laptop I kept in the home office.
Victoria had known the password for three years.
I had never changed it because I had never thought I needed to.
"Yes," I said.
"Change every password tonight.
Email, banking, everything.
Do it from your phone, not the laptop."
I was already moving toward the bedroom to get my phone charger when I stopped.
The home office door was open.
The laptop was on.
The screen was lit.
I hadn't left it on.
I walked to the doorway.
The browser was open to my email account.
The sent folder was pulled up.
There was a message at the top — sent forty-seven minutes ago, while Victoria had been in the bedroom on the phone — to an address I didn't recognize.
The subject line read: Confirming our arrangement.
I didn't touch the keyboard.
"Patricia," I said into the phone.
"She already did it."
A pause.
"Don't close the browser.
Take a photograph of the screen with your phone.
Timestamp visible.
Then call me back."
I took the photograph.
Three of them, from different angles, making sure the sent timestamp, the recipient address, and the subject line were all legible.
Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Victoria appeared in the doorway.
She looked at the laptop.
Then at my phone.
Then at me.
For the first time since her grandfather had arrived, the composure slipped — just for a second, just enough.
"That's my email account," I said.
"And you just sent something from it."
She said nothing.
"I have a photograph of the screen," I said.
"Timestamp.
Recipient.
Subject line.
All of it."
She recovered quickly.
She always did.
"You left it open.
I was closing it for you."
"Patricia," I said into the phone, "she's here."
Victoria's eyes went to the phone.
She hadn't known I was on a call.
"Ms.
Marsh," Patricia said, loud enough to carry, "I'd strongly advise you not to say anything further tonight.
Your husband has retained counsel.
Anything you say from this point may be relevant in proceedings."
Victoria's expression went very still.
She turned and walked out of the doorway without a word.
I stood in the home office alone, phone in one hand, the photograph already taken, the evidence already real.
"She heard you," I said.
May you like
"Good," Patricia said.
"That's exactly what I wanted."
