Chương 11
“I should’ve seen more,” I whispered.
Emma pulled back.
“You see a lot.”
“Not enough.”
She did not answer.
A phone vibrated on the counter.
Mine.
I looked at the screen.
Patricia.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw her message.
Call me when you can.
Your husband filed for emergency custody this morning.
Everything inside me dropped.
Emma saw my face.
“What?”
“Nothing you need to worry about right this second.”
“That means something bad.”
“It means something I have to deal with.”
She looked at the phone.
“Is it Dad?”
“No.”
I stood too fast and grabbed the edge of the table.
Pain shot through my abdomen.
Emma reached for me.
“Mom.”
“I’m okay.”
“You keep saying that when you’re not.”
I looked at her.
Apparently twelve-year-olds could become painfully accurate when adults stopped pretending.
“You’re right.”
I sat again.
“I’m not okay.”
She nodded as though that answer made more sense.
“But I can handle the next thing.”
“What’s the next thing?”
“I need to call Patricia.”
Emma looked toward the stairs.
“Do you want Grandpa?”
I almost said yes.
Then I thought about our argument.
About the years I had spent letting stronger personalities decide when I was tired, when I was wrong, when something counted, when it did not.
“No.”
I picked up the phone.
“I want you to go upstairs with your sisters.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Emma started toward the hall, then turned back.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“If Dad says bad things about you in court, can I tell them what happened?”
My chest tightened.
“You never have to protect me by fighting with your father.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She had inherited that from Dad.
I took a breath.
“If someone whose job is to help make decisions asks you what happened, you tell the truth.”
“Even if it makes Dad mad?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
After she left, I called Patricia.
She answered immediately.
“He moved fast,” I said.
“He did.”
“What exactly did he file?”
“An emergency petition asking for temporary custody of the four girls.”
“On what grounds?”
Patricia paused.
“He alleges you are emotionally unstable after childbirth.”
I laughed once.
The sound came out ugly.
“Of course.”
“He alleges you introduced a child of uncertain paternity into the family and created a hostile environment.”
“He hit me.”
“Yes.”
“He hit me in a hospital.”
“I know.”
“With witnesses.”
“I know.”
“And he filed against me?”
“People file things.”
Her voice remained maddeningly calm.
“Filing is not winning.”
“What else?”
“He claims your father used military influence to have him forcibly removed from his residence.”
“That’s a lie.”
“His version is artfully vague.”
“My father specifically stayed out of it.”
“Good.”
“He didn’t call the police.”
“Good.”
“He didn’t threaten David.”
“Even better.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“What happens now?”
“We respond.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“I just had a baby.”
“I’m aware.”
“Apparently David isn’t.”
“No.”
Something clicked on her end.
“I also need to ask you something unpleasant.”
“Go ahead.”
“Has he ever frightened the children before yesterday?”
I looked toward the stairs.
“Yes.”
Patricia went silent.
“How much?”
“I’m still finding out.”
“Then do not interrogate them.”
“I’m not.”
“Do not coach them.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not ask them to choose sides.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I say it because good parents make terrible mistakes when they’re scared.”
I closed my eyes.
“Emma told me he grabbed her arm last summer.”
The keyboard on Patricia’s end stopped.
“Did it leave a mark?”
“She says briefly.”
“Witness?”
“Sophie.”
“Anything else?”
“He threw a lamp during an argument with Sophie.”
“Was anyone injured?”
“No.”
“Other property damage?”
“Pantry door.”
“Anything involving vehicles?”
My silence answered for me.
“Claire.”
“He drives aggressively when he’s angry.”
“With the girls?”
“Yes.”
Patricia exhaled slowly.
“This changes how I want to handle today.”
Fear prickled along my arms.
“How?”
“We document carefully.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we do not turn your children into evidence machines.”
Her voice hardened.
“We protect them first and build the case around reliable facts.”
I looked at the incident number Officer Cho had left beside my discharge papers.
“For the first time,” I said, “I think I understand the difference.”
Patricia was quiet.
“Good.”
Then she added, “Because David’s petition is not the most concerning thing I found this morning.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What did you find?”
“A financial affidavit attached to his filing.”
“So?”
“So your husband states that your joint savings account contains twenty-three thousand dollars.”
I stared at the cabinet across from me.
“That can’t be right.”
“What did you believe was in it?”
“About ninety.”
Patricia did not speak.
I stood up slowly.
The room seemed suddenly too bright.
“Claire, when did you last check that account yourself?”
I opened my banking app with shaking fingers.
The balance loaded.
$22,814.17.
For a moment I thought the app had opened the wrong account.
Then I saw the account number.
The transfers beneath it went back months.
Regular amounts.
Five thousand.
Eight thousand.
Twelve thousand.
All moved into an account I did not recognize.
My mouth went dry.
“Patricia.”
“I’m here.”
“He’s been moving money.”
“How long?”
I scrolled.
The oldest transfer I could see was eight months earlier.
The date stopped me.
It was two days after the ultrasound when we learned Nathan was a boy.
“Claire?”
I stared at the screen.
David had started taking our money long before he ever saw our son’s blue eyes.
For several seconds I could hear Patricia breathing on the other end while I scrolled through transfer after transfer.
The amounts were not identical.
That made them worse.
They looked deliberate.
Seven thousand here.
Four thousand there.
Amounts small enough that I had apparently missed them between mortgage payments, school expenses, groceries, and the constant financial static of six people living under one roof.
“Do you recognize the destination account?” Patricia asked.
“No.”
“Is it at the same bank?”
“Yes.”
May you like
“Can you see the account owner?”
“No.”
