Chapter 7: The Man Who Thought He Was Untouchable
Paula put her hand flat on the desk.
*Don't agree to anything.* She mouthed it clearly.
"Mr.
Farrell," I said.
"How did you get this number?"
"I'm resourceful." A pause.
"I understand you've retained counsel.
That's wise.
But I think if we speak directly, woman to woman — forgive me, person to person — we can resolve this more cleanly than lawyers tend to allow."
"Resolve what, exactly?"
"Your brother's situation.
Which has unfortunately become your situation." Another pause, this one calculated.
"And your daughter's."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"I'm listening," I said.
Paula's eyes sharpened.
"Gareth made poor decisions.
I don't hold that against him — people do.
What I need is resolution.
What you need is for this to go away quietly, for Nora's sake.
She's been through enough.
A court case, depositions, her name in local news — that's a great deal to put a child through."
"You're threatening my daughter."
"I'm observing that legal processes are hard on children," he said pleasantly.
"I'm suggesting there's a cleaner path.
You withdraw the complaint.
Gareth and I settle our arrangement privately.
Everyone moves on."
"And what do I get?"
"Peace," he said.
"And the knowledge that Nora doesn't spend the next two years being asked by strangers to describe the worst night of her life."
I looked at Paula.
She was already writing on a notepad.
She turned it to face me: *Keep him talking.
Ask about the messages.*
"The text messages, Mr.
Farrell," I said.
"The ones between you and Gareth, two days before the wedding.
The ones where you discussed using my daughter as a distraction."
Silence.
The first real silence he'd given me.
"I don't know what messages you're referring to."
"D.F.," I said.
"That's how he had you saved.
*She'll be the focus.
Trust me.
Nobody will be looking at the money by Monday.*" I kept my voice even.
"Those messages."
The silence stretched four full seconds.
"Ms.
Calloway," he said, and his voice had changed — not much, but enough.
The pleasantness was still there but it was working harder now.
"I think you may be operating on incomplete information."
"I think I have exactly the right information," I said.
"And so does my attorney.
And so, as of this morning, does the Denver Police Department."
The line went quiet again.
Paula was writing fast.
She held up the notepad: *End the call now.
Don't give him more.*
"I think we're done here, Mr.
Farrell."
"Ms.
Calloway—"
I ended the call.
Paula was already on her own phone.
"I need to speak with Detective Marsh.
Today.
Yes, it's urgent." She covered the receiver.
"You did well.
The call was long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
She allowed herself a small, precise smile.
"I had the call recorded the moment you answered.
With your implicit consent — you knew I was in the room." She went back to her call.
"Detective Marsh.
Paula Reyes.
I have a recorded conversation you need to hear."
---
The next four days moved in a way that felt both very fast and very slow.
Nora went back to school on Wednesday.
She didn't want to talk about the wedding and I didn't make her.
Her teacher, Mrs.
Okafor, sent me a quiet email saying that Nora had been subdued but okay, and that if I needed anything to please reach out.
I read it three times.
Gareth called once.
I let it go to voicemail.
He left a message that was two minutes and forty seconds long and contained the words "family," "reputation," and "you're being irrational" in roughly equal measure.
I forwarded it to Paula without listening to it again.
My mother called twice.
I answered the second time.
"Marissa." Her voice was careful.
Controlled.
The voice she used when she was managing something.
"This has gone far enough."
"Has it."
"Gareth is your brother.
Whatever happened at the wedding—"
"He hjt Nora, Mom."
"He lost his temper.
He didn't mean—"
"He planned it two days in advance.
I have the messages."
Silence.
"I know about Dominic Farrell," I said.
"I know about the loan.
I know Gareth needed a distraction and chose his eight-year-old niece because she was the safest target in the room.
The smallest.
The least likely to fight back." I paused.
"He miscalculated."
My mother said nothing for a long moment.
When she spoke, her voice was different.
Quieter.
The management had gone out of it.
"I didn't know about the messages," she said.
"But you knew something was wrong."
"I knew he was in trouble.
I thought — I thought I could keep it contained."
"You stopped the paramedic," I said.
"You put your hand up and stopped a man with a first aid kit from reaching your bleeding grandchild.
To keep it contained."
The line was very quiet.
"I'm sorry," she said.
And I believed her.
And it wasn't enough.
And both of those things were true at the same time.
"I have to go, Mom."
I hung up.
Nora was at the kitchen table doing homework.
She looked up when I came in.
"Was that Grandma?"
"Yes."
"Is she mad?"
I sat down across from her.
"No, baby.
She's not mad."
Nora looked at her worksheet.
"Is Uncle Gareth going to get in trouble?"
"Yes," I said.
"He is."
May you like
She nodded slowly, like she was fitting a piece into a puzzle she'd been working on for a while.
"Good," she said, and went back to her homework.
