Chapter 2 - The Petition.
Megan arrived at the hospital at one fourteen in the morning carrying a leather folder thick enough to make my stomach turn.
She was still wearing the navy dress she had probably worn to dinner, but she had thrown a raincoat over it and pulled her hair into a loose knot.
I had known Megan Shaw since college.
She had represented me when Leah's estate went through probate.
She had also warned me, more than once, not to underestimate Diana Holloway.
I had thought Megan was being overly cautious.
I did not think that anymore.
"How did she get a hearing this fast?" I asked.
Megan sat beside me in the small family consultation room down the hall from Emma.
"She didn't get it tonight."
"I know."
I pushed both hands through my wet hair.
"She filed yesterday."
"Thursday afternoon, actually."
I looked at her.
"Thursday?"
Megan opened the folder.
"The petition was submitted at four seventeen p.m. Thursday."
Emma had gone to Diana's house Friday evening.
The cage had happened Saturday night.
Diana had requested emergency custody more than a full day before Emma even arrived.
"On what grounds?"
Megan hesitated.
That hesitation frightened me more than any answer could have.
"Read it," I said.
She slid a copy across the table.
The first page had my full name at the top.
Daniel Mercer.
Respondent.
Under that was Emma's name.
Minor child.
Then Diana Holloway.
Petitioner.
I skimmed the first paragraph.
Then the second.
Then I stopped.
"This is insane."
Megan did not disagree.
The petition claimed I had become unstable after Leah's death.
It claimed I routinely left Emma with unqualified babysitters overnight.
It claimed Emma had arrived at preschool hungry on multiple occasions.
It claimed I had missed pediatric appointments.
It claimed my home was unsafe.
It claimed I had recently begun drinking heavily.
It claimed Emma had expressed fear of returning home with me.
Every sentence was written in calm, professional language.
That made it worse.
Wild accusations would have looked wild.
These looked organized.
Documented.
Possible.
"None of this is true," I said.
"I know."
"Then why are you looking like that?"
Megan turned several pages.
"Because she attached exhibits."
My mouth went dry.
"What exhibits?"
She placed photographs on the table.
The first showed the inside of my refrigerator.
There were three bottles of beer on the lower shelf.
A takeout box sat beside them.
The angle made the refrigerator look nearly empty.
"When was this taken?"
"No metadata on the copy we received."
I stared at the picture.
Then I remembered.
Diana had come to my house three weeks earlier to pick up a box of Leah's old jewelry.
She had gone into the kitchen while I carried the box down from the attic.
"She took this."
Megan nodded slowly.
The next photograph showed several empty wine bottles in my recycling bin.
I almost laughed.
"Those were from Kate's birthday dinner."
"Can anyone confirm that?"
"Eight people."
"Good."
The next exhibit was worse.
It was a screenshot of a text conversation.
My name appeared at the top.
The message supposedly from me read: I can't do this alone anymore. Some days I wish I could just disappear.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
"I never sent that."
"I believe you."
"Megan, I never sent that."
"We'll subpoena the original records if we need to."
"Who is it supposedly to?"
She turned the page so I could see the recipient.
Rachel Moore.
Emma's former babysitter.
Rachel had worked for us for six months after Leah died.
She had left suddenly after saying she needed to move home to help her mother.
I had not spoken to her in almost a year.
"Rachel gave her this?"
Megan's expression tightened.
"Rachel signed an affidavit."
I felt something inside me sink.
"What did she say?"
Megan handed me another page.
Rachel described me as exhausted, overwhelmed, and emotionally unpredictable.
She claimed I had asked her to keep Emma overnight without notice on multiple occasions.
She claimed she had once found me asleep on the living room floor while Emma wandered downstairs alone.
None of it had happened.
Not once.
"Why would she say this?"
"I don't know yet."
I kept reading.
There was an affidavit from a neighbor I barely knew.
There was a letter from someone identified as a private family consultant.
There was a preschool attendance record showing seven late arrivals.
Seven.
I could explain every one.
Two came after pediatric appointments.
Three came during the month my car had transmission problems.
One happened when Emma refused to leave the house without the stuffed rabbit Leah had given her.
One happened because I overslept after spending half the night with Emma when she had a stomach bug.
On paper, seven late arrivals looked different.
On paper, ordinary life could be arranged to look like failure.
"She has been collecting this for months," I said.
"At least."
"Why?"
Megan leaned back.
"That's what I need you to think about."
I shook my head.
"She hates me."
"That isn't enough."
"For Diana, it might be."
"Not for this level of planning."
She tapped the petition.
"She hired counsel, paid for affidavits, gathered photographs, found a consultant, and arranged an emergency hearing."
I stared at the folder.
"Who is her attorney?"
"Charles Voss."
I knew the name.
Everyone in our county did.
Voss represented old-money families in ugly disputes they did not want discussed publicly.
He was not the kind of attorney someone hired because they were worried about a few late preschool mornings.
"How much does he cost?"
"Enough that this isn't impulsive."
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was Kate.
I answered.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Hospital."
Her voice cracked.
"Is Emma okay?"
"They think she will be."
Kate exhaled shakily.
"I saw the police at Diana's place on the neighborhood group. Someone posted a video."
My stomach tightened.
"What video?"
"Just lights in the driveway. Nothing with Emma."
"Good."
There was a pause.
"Daniel, Mom called me."
Kate called Diana Mom too, but only because Diana had practically raised her after our own mother died when Kate and I were teenagers.
The relationship between our families had always been tangled.
"What did she say?"
"She said you attacked her."
I shut my eyes.
There it was.
My mistake.
The one moment of rage Diana could use.
I had struck her after she said Emma was not going to die that easily.
I did not regret getting between her and my child.
I did regret giving Diana something clean and simple she could show a judge.
"I did hit her," I said.
Kate went silent.
"Why?"
"Because she said something about Emma after I found her chained outside."
"Chained?"
Her voice rose.
"What do you mean chained?"
Megan motioned for me to keep my voice low.
I explained only the basics.
By the end, Kate was crying quietly.
"I didn't know," she said.
"Neither did I."
"Daniel, she told me Emma threw a tantrum and ran into the yard."
"That's her story."
"She said you came in screaming and hit her before anyone could explain."
"Of course she did."
Kate breathed through her nose.
Then her tone changed.
"Wait."
"What?"
"She called me Thursday too."
I sat straighter.
"What did she want?"
"She asked me questions about you."
Megan leaned closer.
I put the call on speaker.
"What questions?" I asked.
Kate answered carefully.
"She asked whether you had been drinking more since Leah died."
I looked at Megan.
"What else?"
"Whether Emma slept in your bed. Whether you ever left her with me at the last minute. Whether you still had trouble sleeping."
"What did you say?"
"I told her you were tired because you're a single dad, not because you're falling apart."
Kate paused.
"Then she asked something weird."
"What?"
"She asked if I thought you could afford a long custody fight."
The room seemed to get quieter.
Megan picked up a pen.
"Kate," she said, "this is Megan Shaw. I need you to write down everything you remember about that call before you go to sleep. Exact phrases if you can."
"Okay."
"Do not discuss this with Diana again."
"I won't."
"And save your call log."
After Kate hung up, Megan stared at the petition.
"This is coordinated."
"I know."
"No, I mean more coordinated than I thought."
She pulled out the hearing notice.
"Emergency temporary custody. Monday, nine a.m."
"Can they take Emma from me?"
Megan did not offer me a comforting lie.
"A judge can issue temporary orders quickly if the evidence looks convincing enough."
My chest tightened.
"Even after tonight?"
"Tonight changes everything."
"Then we're fine."
She looked at me.
"Don't say that yet."
I understood from her face that there was more.
"What?"
She took a final document from the folder.
"Diana's petition says Emma was scheduled to stay with her this weekend because you told her you were too overwhelmed to care for a sick child."
"That's a lie."
"I know."
"I agreed because she begged for an overnight visit."
"Do you have the messages?"
I reached for my phone.
Then I stopped.
The text thread with Diana was gone.
Not one message.
I searched again.
Nothing.
My hands went cold.
"They're missing."
Megan stood.
"Were they there yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone have access to your phone?"
I thought about Friday afternoon.
Diana had arrived at my house.
Emma had been gathering toys upstairs.
My phone had been charging in the kitchen.
Diana had stood alone beside it while I carried Emma's overnight bag to the car.
Maybe two minutes.
Maybe three.
Long enough.
"She did," I said.
Megan's expression hardened.
"Change every password you have tonight."
I stared at the blank space where months of messages should have been.
Then my phone buzzed once more.
A new email had arrived from an unfamiliar address.
There was no subject line.
There was only an attachment.
A photograph.
I opened it.
It showed Emma asleep on a couch in Diana's house.
Beside her was an open bottle of children's medicine.
On the coffee table was a half-empty glass of amber liquid.
And in the lower corner of the image, just visible, was my black leather wallet.
The message beneath the photo contained six words.
YOU LEFT MORE THAN YOUR DAUGHTER.
I looked at Megan.
"That's not my wallet," I said.
She zoomed in.
The initials D.M. were stamped into the corner.
Exactly like mine.
Then she whispered the first thing that truly scared me that night.
"Someone isn't just collecting evidence, Daniel."
May you like
She looked at the photograph again.
"Someone is manufacturing it."
