Chapter 7: Tuesday
Grace filed on Monday morning.
She called to tell me at 8:47 a.m.
I was at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that had gone cold.
Richard had already left for his shift.
The apartment was very quiet.
"It's in," she said.
"The judicial conduct board received it at eight fifteen.
I've also sent copies to the state attorney's office and to the investigative desk at the regional paper.
Not the full file — enough to signal that something is moving."
"How long before Hale knows?"
"He may already know.
Men like him have eyes in those offices."
I set down the cup.
"What do we do now?"
"You wait.
I work.
And if anyone contacts you — anyone at all — you call me before you respond."
She hung up.
I sat there for a while.
Then I got up, poured the cold coffee down the drain, and made a fresh cup.
I stood at the window and watched the street below.
Ordinary Tuesday morning.
Cars.
A woman walking a dog.
A delivery van idling at the corner.
Somewhere across the city, Carter Hale was getting dressed for court.
Richard called at noon.
"Have you heard anything?"
"Grace filed this morning.
That's all I know."
A pause.
"Are you all right?"
I thought about it honestly.
"I think so," I said.
"I think I've been waiting for something to move for two years without knowing I was waiting."
"I'm sorry it took this long."
"Stop apologizing, Richard.
Start being useful."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, almost to himself: "She's right.
Grace was right about you."
"What did Grace say about me?"
"She said you were the kind of person who, once they understood the full picture, would be the calmest one in the room."
I didn't answer that.
But I held onto it.
The call came at 3:20 p.m.
Not from Grace.
Not from Richard.
A number I didn't recognize.
I almost let it go.
Then I remembered what Grace had said — *call me before you respond* — and I answered it, already reaching for her card.
"Is this the woman who was in the accident on Harlow Road?"
The voice was older.
Male.
Careful.
"Who is this?" I said.
"My name is Arthur Greer," the man said.
"Paul was my son."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Mr.
Greer," I said slowly.
"How did you get this number?"
"A woman named Donna Marsh gave it to me.
She said you were part of this.
She said something was finally happening." His voice was steady but there was something underneath it — something held very tightly in place.
"I've been waiting three years for someone to say that."
I sat down.
"Mr.
Greer," I said.
May you like
"I need to make one call first.
And then I want you to tell me everything about your son."
