Chapter 5: The Days After
Emily slept in my bed that night, curled against my side the way she hadn't since she was four years old and afraid of thunderstorms.
I lay awake with the ceiling above me and the envelope on the nightstand and tried to build a clear picture of the past two years.
It kept coming apart at the seams.
The first call came at seven the next morning.
I let it go to voicemail.
Rebecca's voice was controlled, almost gentle.
*"James.
I know you're angry.
I understand that.
But I need you to think carefully before you make any decisions you can't undo.
Call me back."*
I made Emily's breakfast.
Scrambled eggs, the way she liked them, with the crusts cut off her toast.
She sat at the kitchen table and watched me cook and didn't say anything for a long time.
Then: "Is Rebecca going to be my stepmother?"
"No, sweetheart."
"Because of the note?"
"Because of a lot of things."
She was quiet again.
She picked up a piece of toast and put it back down.
"She told me not to tell you," Emily said.
"About the note.
She said if I told you, you'd be upset with me."
My back was to her.
I gripped the handle of the pan.
"She said that to you?"
"She said you had enough to worry about and I was being selfish."
I turned around.
Emily was looking at the table.
Her shoulders were pulled in.
"Emily.
Look at me."
She looked up.
"You did exactly the right thing.
Telling me that note — that was the bravest thing I have ever seen.
Do you understand me?"
Her chin wobbled.
"She said you'd agreed."
"I know she did."
"I didn't believe her.
But I was scared that maybe—"
"No," I said.
"Never.
Not ever.
You are not going anywhere."
She came off the chair and into my arms in one motion, the way children do when they have been holding something too long and finally don't have to anymore.
I held her in the kitchen with the eggs going cold on the stove and I let her cry until she was done.
The second call came at nine.
Not Rebecca this time — a number I didn't recognize.
"Mr.
Hartley?
My name is Graham Osei.
I'm a solicitor.
I've been retained by Ms.
Rebecca Calloway.
She's asked me to reach out regarding the — ah — the situation yesterday.
She's hoping you might be open to a conversation before either party takes any formal steps."
"What kind of formal steps is she concerned about?"
A pause.
"She understands there may be questions about certain documents.
She'd like the opportunity to explain the context before anything is — escalated."
"Tell her the documents speak for themselves."
"Mr.
Hartley, my client is prepared to be quite generous in terms of—"
"Mr.
Osei." I kept my voice level.
"Your client enrolled my daughter in a residential facility without my knowledge or consent, using a letter that contained false statements about my child's needs and my intentions as her father.
That's not a context problem.
That's fraud."
The line went quiet.
"I'd suggest," I said, "that Ms.
Calloway speak to her solicitor about her own exposure before she worries about mine."
I ended the call.
Emily was back at the table, drawing on a notepad she'd found in the kitchen drawer.
I watched her for a moment — the careful way she held her pencil, the small frown of concentration — and felt something settle in my chest.
Not peace, not yet.
But the beginning of it.
My phone lit up again.
This time the name on the screen was one I was glad to see.
Carol.
"I wanted to check on Emily," she said when I answered.
"And on you."
"We're all right.
Better than yesterday."
"I'm sorry it took me so long.
I kept telling myself there was a way to handle it quietly.
That maybe I was wrong about what I'd seen."
"You weren't wrong."
"No." A pause.
"James, there's something I didn't say yesterday.
In the chapel.
I didn't want to say it in front of Emily."
I moved to the hallway, out of earshot.
"What is it?"
"Daniel Forsythe," Carol said.
"The man in the photograph.
I didn't just see them at lunch.
Three weeks ago I saw them coming out of his building on Crestfield Road.
Together.
At seven in the morning."
I leaned against the hallway wall.
"She was going to marry me," I said.
It wasn't a question.
It was just a thing I needed to say out loud to make it real.
"Yes."
"While she was still—"
"Yes."
I looked back through the doorway at Emily, still drawing, her pencil moving in careful loops.
"Carol.
The school — Hartwell.
Do you know if they have a formal intake process?
Any paperwork I could request?"
"I can find out.
Why?"
"Because if Rebecca signed documents misrepresenting Emily's condition and my consent, that's not just something I can walk away from.
A school acted on those documents.
They may have made arrangements.
There may be other children whose families—"
"You think she's done this before?"
I thought about the solicitor's call.
The speed of it.
The offer of generosity before I'd even made a single threat.
"I think she was very well prepared for the possibility that things might go wrong yesterday," I said.
"And I'd like to know why."
May you like
The line was quiet for a moment.
Then Carol said: "I think I know someone who might be able to help with that."
