Chapter 6: The First Time She Smiled at the Wrong Moment
Patricia Holt's office was on the fourth floor of a building downtown, with a waiting room that had no magazines and chairs that were slightly too upright to be comfortable.
I decided that was intentional.
She was smaller than I expected.
Gray at her temples, reading glasses pushed up on her head, a handshake that meant something.
"Sit down," she said.
"Let's go through it."
We spent two hours going through everything.
She read the filing carefully, asked questions I hadn't thought to ask myself, and wrote things down in a notebook with a pen she clicked exactly once before she started and didn't click again.
When we finished, she set the pen down.
"Here is where we stand," she said.
"The filing is aggressive but not unusual for a coordinated strategy of this kind.
The Marcus Webb evaluation is the piece that concerns me most.
If it proceeds and goes against you, it becomes the centerpiece of their case.
We need to challenge his appointment before the evaluation begins."
"Can we do that?"
"We can file a motion questioning his impartiality.
I've documented three prior cases where his recommendations showed a consistent pattern.
It won't automatically disqualify him, but it creates a record and it slows them down." She looked at me.
"More importantly, we need to build your affirmative case.
Not just defend against their claims — build yours.
Noah's preschool teacher, your neighbor, the pediatrician's records, the photographs from last night.
All of it."
"And the chain?" I asked.
"The chain is significant.
If we can establish a pattern — not just one incident but a repeated practice — that changes the nature of this case considerably." She paused.
"You said Noah wasn't frightened when you found him."
"He was calm.
Too calm."
"I'd like to have him assessed by a child psychologist.
Someone independent.
If there's evidence of normalized @buse — a child who has learned not to react because the experience has been repeated — that testimony carries enormous weight."
I nodded.
"I'll arrange it," she said.
"This week if possible."
She walked me to the door.
In the hallway, she stopped.
"One more thing," she said.
"Ryan's mother.
Diane."
"What about her?"
"Is she living in the house?"
"No.
She has her own home.
But she's there often."
"How often?"
I thought about it.
"Most days.
She has a key."
Patricia looked at me steadily.
"Who gave her that key?"
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
I had given her that key.
Eighteen months ago, when Noah was sick and I needed help and Ryan was traveling for work.
I had handed it to her myself, standing at the front door, grateful.
"I did," I said.
Patricia nodded slowly.
"We'll need to address that."
I drove home with Noah in the back seat, watching him in the rearview mirror.
He was looking out the window at the passing trees, one hand pressed against the glass.
"Mama," he said.
"Yes, baby."
"Is Grandma going to be at home?"
"No," I said.
"Not today."
He nodded.
Turned back to the window.
"Good," he said quietly.
I kept my eyes on the road.
When I pulled into the driveway, Ryan's car was gone.
But Diane's was there.
She was standing at the front door with her arms crossed and her key already in her hand, and when she saw me get out of the car, she smiled.
May you like
It was the wrong kind of smile.
The kind that meant she had already been inside.
