Chapter 7: What He Signed in February
The man Thomas called was named Paul Adler.
They had known each other since university — Paul had gone into family law, then into something more specific and considerably less pleasant, which was the exposure of financial and legal fraud in private domestic arrangements.
Thomas had referred two colleagues to him over the years.
He had never expected to need him himself.
Paul picked up on the second ring.
"I need to know what I signed in February," Thomas said.
A pause.
"Hello to you too."
"Paul.
Please."
"All right.
Tell me everything."
Thomas told him.
The eight months.
The drawing.
The bruise.
The photograph.
The man at the door.
Marcus — or Gerald Marsh, solicitor.
The document Renata claimed to be holding.
The notes she said she kept.
Paul listened without interrupting.
When Thomas finished, there was a short silence.
"She's been thorough," Paul said.
"Can she do anything with a document I signed without knowing what it was?"
"Depends entirely on what it says.
Do you have any memory of that Tuesday in February?"
Thomas thought.
February had been bad.
The anniversary of his wife's passing had been the week before.
He remembered being exhausted in a way that went beyond sleep.
He remembered Renata being unusually helpful — organizing correspondence, handling calls, setting things on his desk with small explanations he hadn't fully absorbed.
"She managed a lot of the household paperwork that month," he said.
"I let her."
"Okay.
First thing tomorrow, I need you to pull every document you signed between January and March.
Everything.
Bank correspondence, household accounts, anything with your signature on it.
Can you do that tonight?"
"I can start."
"Good.
Second — the solicitor.
Gerald Marsh.
I know the name.
He operates in a specific area of private law that you don't want to be on the wrong side of." A pause.
"He specializes in contested household arrangements.
Cohabitation agreements.
Asset claims."
Thomas sat down.
"She's claiming a right to the house," he said.
"I don't know that yet.
But that's the shape of it, yes."
"She's been here eight months."
"Doesn't matter, depending on what you signed." Paul's voice was careful but direct.
"Thomas, I need you to stay calm and stay quiet tonight.
Don't confront her again.
Don't ask her about the document.
Don't give her any reason to accelerate her timeline."
"She already warned me off making a phone call."
"Which means she knows you're moving.
So she'll move too." A brief pause.
"Is your daughter safe tonight?"
"Dolores is with her.
The door is locked."
"Keep it that way.
And Thomas — the bruise.
Document it.
Photograph it tonight, with a timestamp.
That's separate from whatever Renata is holding.
That's something else entirely."
Thomas looked toward the ceiling — toward the floor above where Lily was sitting with her picture book and Dolores in the corner chair.
"What does this woman actually want?" he said.
It came out quieter than he intended.
"My best guess?
The house, or a significant financial settlement to leave it.
She's been building the case for months.
You were the asset, Thomas.
The grief, the exhaustion, the child who needed managing — she used all of it."
He didn't answer.
"I'm sorry," Paul said.
"I know that's hard to hear."
"I should have seen it."
"People in grief don't see clearly.
That's not a character flaw.
That's what she counted on." Paul's tone shifted — still direct, but with something steadier underneath it.
"Here's what I need you to understand.
She has a document.
She may have notes.
She has a solicitor.
But she also has a bruise on a six-year-old's arm, a photograph of a covert meeting, and a housemaid with eleven years of credibility who was present for all of it.
She is not holding all the cards."
"She thinks she is."
"Good," Paul said.
"Let her keep thinking that."
Thomas ended the call.
He sat at the kitchen table for a moment.
The two cups of tea Renata had made were still on the counter.
He got up, poured both of them down the sink, and washed the cups.
Then he went to the filing cabinet in the study and began pulling documents.
He worked for two hours.
By the time he found it, it was nearly ten o'clock — a single page tucked between a household insurance renewal and a boiler service agreement.
His signature at the bottom, dated the fourteenth of February.
He read it once.
Then he read it again.
Then he photographed it, sent the image to Paul, and went upstairs.
Dolores was asleep in the chair.
Lily was awake, the rabbit book closed on her lap, watching the door.
"I found it," Thomas said softly.
"What does it say?"
He sat on the edge of the bed.
"It says that in the event of a dispute about this household, she has the right to remain in the property until the matter is resolved by a court."
Lily was quiet for a moment.
"Can she stay?"
"Not if I can help it."
"How?"
He looked at his daughter.
At the careful, watchful face she had developed over eight months of learning to be invisible.
"She made a mistake," he said.
"She was so focused on the document that she forgot about you."
Lily frowned.
"I'm little."
"You're the one who found the photograph," he said.
"You're the one who made the drawing.
You're the one who heard my car." He looked at her steadily.
"You've been collecting evidence for weeks.
You just didn't know that's what it was called."
Something shifted in her face.
The watchfulness softened — just slightly.
"Will it work?" she said.
"Paul thinks so."
She looked down at the book in her lap.
Ran her thumb along the cover.
"Will you still do the voice?" she said.
"The rabbit one."
May you like
"Yes," he said.
"Move over."
