Chapter 7: The Call from Martin
The solicitor's name was Patricia Osei.
Thomas had worked with her firm twice before, on matters that had nothing to do with family law, but she came recommended by two people he trusted and she had answered his call before nine in the morning, which told him something about her.
He explained the situation in the kitchen, his voice low, Lily still asleep upstairs.
Patricia listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she said: "You have the note?"
"Yes."
"Don't let it leave the house.
I'll need to see it.
Can you come in this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Bring the housemaid if she's willing.
Her account matters."
Dolores, sitting across the table with her second cup of tea, nodded when Thomas looked at her.
"She's willing," he said.
"Good.
Two o'clock.
And Mr.
Thomas — until we've spoken, don't contact the woman or her brother directly.
Don't respond to messages.
If she shows up at the house, you call me first."
"Understood."
He ended the call and set the phone on the table.
Dolores said: "She'll have called Martin last night."
"I know."
"He'll be working on a version of events."
"I know that too."
He picked up his coffee.
It had gone cold.
He drank it anyway.
At eleven, Lily came downstairs in her socks, her hair still flattened from sleep, and stood in the kitchen doorway looking at both of them with the careful expression of a child checking whether the world had changed back overnight.
"She's gone," Thomas said.
"She's not coming back."
Lily looked at him for a long moment.
Then she came to the table and climbed into the chair beside him — the same chair she'd sat in last night — and pulled the cereal box toward her without being asked.
"Okay," she said.
Thomas watched her pour cereal into a bowl.
His throat moved.
"Lily," he said.
"Mm."
"I'm sorry I wasn't here."
She looked up.
Considered this with the seriousness she applied to most things.
Then she said: "You didn't know."
"I should have."
She poured the milk.
"Dolores didn't know either.
Not at first." She glanced at Dolores.
"Right?"
"Not at first," Dolores agreed.
"So." Lily picked up her spoon.
"You both know now."
Thomas looked at Dolores over his daughter's head.
Dolores looked back at him.
The phone rang at half past eleven.
Thomas looked at the screen.
A number he didn't recognize — but the area code was the same as the woman's.
He answered.
"Mr.
Thomas." The voice was male, smooth, practiced.
"My name is Martin Hale.
I believe you know my sister."
"I know who you are," Thomas said.
"Then you know I'm calling because I'm concerned.
My sister is very distressed.
She's told me what happened last night and I have to say — I think there may have been a significant misunderstanding."
"There wasn't."
A brief pause.
"I understand you're upset.
But I've spent a great deal of time in that house.
I've seen how your daughter behaves.
She's a troubled child, Mr.
Thomas.
I say that with compassion.
She's been through a loss and she acts out in ways that are—"
"Mr.
Hale," Thomas said.
"I'm going to stop you there."
Lily looked up from her cereal.
Thomas held up one finger — wait — and she went back to eating, though her spoon moved more slowly.
"My solicitor's name is Patricia Osei," Thomas said.
"If you or your sister wish to make any claims about my daughter's behavior or my household, you'll direct them to her.
Her office number is publicly listed.
I'd suggest you write it down."
Silence on the line.
"If you contact me directly again," Thomas continued, "I'll consider it harassment and I'll document it accordingly.
Do you understand?"
Martin Hale's voice, when it came back, had lost its smoothness.
"You're making a serious error."
"Perhaps," Thomas said.
"Goodbye, Mr.
Hale."
He ended the call.
Lily was watching him.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"No one important," Thomas said.
Then, because she deserved better than a comfortable lie: "Her brother.
He was trying to help her."
Lily absorbed this.
"What did you say?"
"I said he should call my solicitor."
She thought about this.
"What's a solicitor?"
"A lawyer.
Someone who helps sort out problems officially."
"Oh." She went back to her cereal.
Then: "Is he going to cause trouble?"
Thomas looked at his daughter — six years old, eating cereal in her socks, asking whether someone was going to cause trouble with the calm practicality of someone who had already survived quite a lot of it.
"He's going to try," Thomas said.
Lily nodded slowly.
"Dolores says that people who do bad things usually try to make it seem like they didn't."
Dolores, at the counter, said nothing.
But the corner of her mouth moved.
"Dolores is right," Thomas said.
Lily finished her cereal.
She carried the bowl to the sink, rinsed it the way Dolores had taught her, and set it on the rack.
Then she turned around and said: "Papa.
Are we going to be all right?"
Thomas looked at her for a long moment.
"Yes," he said.
"We are."
She studied his face — that careful, checking look — and whatever she found there was enough.
"Okay," she said.
And went upstairs to get dressed.
Thomas stood in the kitchen after she'd gone, his cold coffee in his hand, and the phone on the table between him and Dolores.
It didn't ring again.
But that afternoon, two hours before his appointment with Patricia Osei, a message arrived from the woman's number.
No words.
Just a photograph.
Thomas looked at it for a long time.
Then he forwarded it to Patricia without opening it again, and he put the phone face-down on the table.
"What was it?" Dolores asked.
May you like
"I don't know yet," he said.
"But she's not done."
