Chapter 7: What Patricia Said
Patricia Voss's office was on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like old wood and fresh coffee.
She was younger than I expected — early fifties, reading glasses pushed up on her head, a directness about her that made me feel, within thirty seconds of sitting down, that I was finally talking to someone who would not soften anything.
"Walk me through it from the beginning," she said.
"Don't leave anything out."
I did.
All of it.
The anniversary dinner.
The photograph.
Diane at my kitchen table.
The faked text messages.
The second phone.
The apartment.
The account.
Patricia didn't interrupt.
She made notes on a yellow legal pad in handwriting I couldn't read upside down.
When I finished, she set her pen down.
"The spoofed messages concern me most," she said.
"Not from a marital standpoint.
From a legal one.
Creating fraudulent communications using someone else's identity — even a spouse's — crosses a line that family law alone doesn't cover."
"What line?"
"Potentially criminal fraud.
Possibly identity fraud, depending on the state." She folded her hands.
"I want to be careful not to overstate this.
But I also want you to understand that what he did was not simply dishonest.
It was calculated.
He created false evidence to manipulate another person's decisions.
That matters."
"What do I do?"
"First: you do nothing that looks like retaliation.
No confrontations you haven't planned.
No access to his accounts beyond what you've already seen.
No contact with Diane unless she initiates." She picked up her pen again.
"Second: I need copies of everything.
The screenshots your sister has.
Any financial documents you have access to as a joint account holder.
Any records of shared assets."
"We have a joint account.
And a mortgage."
"Good.
That gives us a clear picture of marital assets.
The separate account — the apartment — that's where it gets interesting." She made another note.
"Has he contacted you this morning?"
"Three texts.
I didn't reply."
"Keep not replying.
For now." She looked up.
"Mrs.
Harlow, I want to ask you something directly, and I want you to take a moment before you answer.
What outcome do you want?"
I had been sitting with that question since two in the morning.
"I want my children protected," I said.
"Financially and otherwise.
I want the house — or the equivalent value.
I want him to be accountable for what he did.
Not punished.
Accountable.
There's a difference."
"There is," she said.
"That's a workable position." She paused.
"And the marriage itself?"
"I don't know yet," I said.
"I'm not ready to answer that."
"That's honest.
And it's fine.
You don't have to decide today." She closed the legal pad.
"What I need you to do between now and when we speak again is this: act normally.
Go home.
Be present for your children.
If Daniel contacts you, respond briefly and without hostility.
Give nothing away."
"You want me to pretend everything is fine."
"I want you to give him no reason to move money, destroy evidence, or change his behavior before we have a complete picture." She stood and extended her hand.
"Can you do that?"
I shook it.
"I've been doing it for six weeks already," I said.
She almost smiled.
"Then you'll manage a few more days."
I left her office at nine-fifteen.
Daniel had sent a fourth text while I was inside.
*Can we please talk tonight?
I just want to explain.*
I put my phone in my bag and walked to my car.
That afternoon, I picked up both children from school.
My daughter showed me a drawing she had made of our family — four figures, all holding hands, the sun enormous in the corner.
My son told me about a goal he had scored at lunch.
May you like
I listened to every word.
When we got home, Daniel's car was in the driveway.
