Chapter 17 - The Desperate Messenger
Three weeks later, we had settled into a sun-drenched stone cottage on the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland. The air was crisp and scented with pine, and Emma was already enrolled in a private preparatory school nestled beside an ancient oak forest. She wore a neat navy blazer with a crest on the pocket, and she came home every afternoon talking about her new friends, Isla and Callum.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when my secure legal inbox received an email from an unexpected address: *[email protected]*.
It was Mark. Jessica’s ex-husband.
I stared at the screen, hesitating for several minutes before clicking to open the message.
*David,*
*I know you don't want to hear from anyone connected to that family, and God knows I don't blame you. If I could have scrubbed Jessica out of my life ten years ago, I would have.*
*I’m writing to tell you two things. First: thank you. When you canceled that cruise and withdrew your financial support, it forced Jessica’s hand. She panicked. She tried to clean out my kids' custodial accounts before she caught her flight to Central America, but because the bank flagged the suspicious activity following your credit card cancellations, they froze the accounts just in time. The kids' college funds are safe.*
*Second: I thought you should know what happened to your parents. They were evicted on Tuesday. Robert refused to go to the shelter with Evelyn. He checked himself into a state veterans' assisted living facility thirty miles away. He told the social worker he would rather die alone in a hospital bed than spend another night listening to his wife defend Jessica.*
*Evelyn is staying in the basement of one of her church friends. But David... she hasn't stopped. She found a low-rent private investigator. She thinks you owe her that $42,000, plus the equity from your house. She keeps telling people at the parish that you 'abducted' Emma and fled the country to escape your legal duties.*
*She doesn't know where you are. Nobody does. But be careful. When a narcissist loses their favorite toy, they don't get sad. They get dangerous.*
*Give Emma a hug for me. My kids miss their cousin.*
*Best,*
*Mark.*
I leaned back in my leather desk chair, feeling a cold chill prickle the hairs on my arms.
Evelyn hiring a private investigator.
With what money? The church friend's charity? Or had she sold off the last piece of jewelry she owned to pursue her vengeance?
The absurdity of it was staggering. She didn't want Emma back. She had never spent more than ten minutes alone with Emma without complaining that my daughter was "too quiet" or "too needy." What she wanted was retribution. She wanted the scapegoat back in his pen so she could slaughter him for dinner.
I opened a new message window and drafted a reply to Arthur Vance.
May you like
*Arthur. Step up the perimeter security on the trust. Ensure Emma's school registration records are sealed under judicial non-disclosure. If anyone inquires about my whereabouts through domestic legal channels, initiate immediate sanctions.*
***
