Chapter 6: What K Knew
She called the number from the parking garage.
It rang twice.
"I wasn't sure you'd call," the voice said.
A woman.
Calm, measured, the kind of voice that had practice delivering difficult information.
"Who are you?" Claire asked.
"My name is Karen Doyle.
I'm a paralegal.
I work for a family law firm in the city." A pause.
"I used to work for your husband's attorney."
Claire leaned against the car.
"Used to."
"I left the firm six weeks ago.
There were things being handled there that I wasn't comfortable with."
"Things involving my husband."
"Things involving your husband, a private investigator, and a document that was not what it claimed to be."
Claire's grip on the phone tightened.
"The paternity test."
"The document you found was fabricated," Karen said.
"The test was never conducted through a licensed laboratory.
The letterhead was copied from a legitimate testing company.
The results were typed in.
Your husband paid someone to produce it."
The parking garage was dim and smelled of concrete and exhaust.
Claire focused on a crack in the pillar in front of her.
"He fabricated a paternity test."
"To use in a custody proceeding.
The plan was to file for full custody of Maya on the grounds that she was not biologically his — which, under the argument his attorney was preparing, would mean you had deceived him about the child's parentage throughout the marriage.
It would have framed you as dishonest, unstable, and unfit."
"And Maya is his biological daughter."
"As far as I know, no legitimate test has ever been conducted.
There is no evidence she is not his child.
The document you found was manufactured entirely to support a legal strategy."
Claire closed her eyes for a moment.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I have a daughter," Karen said.
"She's seven.
And when I understood what that document was actually going to be used for — what it was going to do to a four-year-old girl and her mother — I couldn't stay quiet."
"Do you have proof?
Of the fabrication?"
"I have the original email chain between your husband and the man who produced the document.
I have the payment record.
And I have a copy of the internal case notes from the attorney's file, which I retained before I left."
Claire opened her eyes.
"Karen.
I need you to understand what you're offering to do."
"I understand it."
"This will go to court.
You may be called as a witness.
Your former employer will likely come after your professional standing."
"I know." A pause.
"I've already spoken to an attorney of my own."
Claire stood up straight.
"Can you meet me tomorrow morning?"
"Yes.
Tell me where."
They agreed on a coffee shop near the courthouse.
Eight o'clock.
Claire would bring her own attorney if she could arrange it by then.
She ended the call and stood in the parking garage for a moment longer.
Then she called her sister.
"How's Maya?" she asked when Diane picked up.
"She's fine.
We made sandwiches.
She's watching something about penguins."
Claire almost laughed.
"Okay."
"Claire.
What's happening?"
"I'll explain everything tonight.
Just — keep her close."
"I'm not letting her out of my sight."
"Thank you, Diane."
She got in the car.
She sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel.
Then she called her attorney.
His name was Robert Fenn.
He had handled her parents' estate seven years ago and she had kept his number because he was the kind of man who answered his phone and told you the truth without softening it unnecessarily.
He answered on the second ring.
She told him everything.
The pit.
Renee.
Dennis.
The office.
Sophie's mother.
The envelope.
Karen Doyle.
He was quiet for a moment when she finished.
"Can you get to my office in the next hour?" he said.
"Yes."
"Come now.
And bring the envelope."
She pulled out of the parking garage into the afternoon light.
Her phone buzzed again.
A message from Paul this time.
*You're making a mistake.
There are things about Maya you don't know.
Things I was trying to protect you from.
Please don't do this.*
She read it once.
May you like
Set the phone face-down on the passenger seat.
And drove.
