Chapter 7: The Folder Renata Kept
Renata's folder arrived by email that afternoon — a compressed file containing forty-seven pages.
Naomi opened it at her kitchen table and read for two hours without stopping.
Text messages between Vanessa and Holloway, dated across eight months, mapping the construction of a false neglect narrative against Renata with the same vocabulary, the same spacing strategy, the same language about *patterns* and *documentation* and what would *land hardest* with a family court judge.
Witness statements Renata had collected from her own family, her neighbors, Cora's nursery teacher — all attesting to consistent, loving, present parenting that directly contradicted the picture Holloway had built.
And at the back of the folder: a signed letter from Renata's solicitor, dated three years ago, addressed to Holloway's firm, formally accusing him of submitting fabricated evidence in a custody proceeding.
The letter had been ignored.
Naomi called her own solicitor the same afternoon.
Her name was Clare Adeyemi.
Naomi had used her for the original custody arrangement after the separation from Graham, and Clare had the kind of voice that made complicated things feel manageable without pretending they were simple.
"Send me everything," Clare said, after Naomi had explained.
"Renata's folder, Eleanor's recording, the text message thread, all of it.
I want to read it tonight."
"How strong is it?"
"Strong enough that I want to read it tonight instead of tomorrow." A brief pause.
"Naomi, if Holloway submitted fabricated evidence in a prior proceeding and nothing was done, that is a serious professional conduct matter.
That doesn't just affect his standing — it affects the credibility of every document he has produced in connection with your case."
"Can we stop the custody application?"
"We can do considerably more than stop it." Clare's voice was measured.
"But I need everything in front of me before I tell you what I think the right move is.
Send it now."
Naomi sent the files.
She picked Maisie up from nursery at three o'clock, the same as always.
Maisie ran across the car park with her coat half off one shoulder and her backpack bouncing, and Naomi caught her and held on a beat longer than usual.
"Mummy, you're squishing me," Maisie said cheerfully.
"Sorry, bug." Naomi set her down and took her hand.
"Good day?"
"We made frogs."
"Real ones?"
Maisie looked up at her with the withering patience of a four-year-old.
"Out of *clay*, Mummy."
"Obviously."
They walked to the car.
Maisie talked about the frogs all the way home.
Clare called at half past eight, after Maisie was in bed.
May you like
"I've read everything," she said.
"Here's what I think we do."
