Chapter 7: The Injunction
I was back in Harold's office within the hour.
He had the filing on his desk.
Three pages.
Neat.
Professional.
The kind of document that takes more than an afternoon to prepare.
"She had this ready," I said.
"Yes." Harold didn't soften it.
"This was not drafted today.
This was drafted in advance."
I sat down.
"So the thirty-nine phone calls this morning.
The 'come home, I can explain everything.'"
"Were buying time," Harold said.
"While this was being finalized."
I looked at the filing.
Vanessa's name at the top.
An attorney's name I didn't recognize below it.
And at the bottom, a claim that the forty-one thousand dollars transferred from my mother's account represented a series of personal loans, voluntarily made, now due for repayment — and that my mother's assets should be frozen pending resolution to ensure recovery.
"She's trying to tie up Mom's money before we can move it," I said.
"That's the effect, yes." Harold leaned forward.
"But she made a significant error."
"What error?"
"The filing claims the transfers were loans.
Documented loans." He turned the page toward me and pointed.
"But there are no documents.
No promissory notes.
No written agreements.
Nothing signed." He tapped the page.
"She's asserting documentation that doesn't exist."
"Can she get the injunction anyway?"
"Not if we respond today.
I've already drafted our counter-filing.
We have the bank statements showing the transfer pattern.
We have your mother's own records.
And we now have the letter." He paused.
"In the letter, Vanessa describes the transfers as money used to pay a debt.
Not a loan from your mother.
Her own words contradict the filing."
"So she's contradicted herself."
"In writing.
Three weeks ago." Harold allowed himself a small, precise expression that was almost satisfaction.
"I'll have our response filed before the court closes today.
The injunction will not go through."
I exhaled slowly.
"And Mom's accounts?"
"I've already spoken to her bank.
Given the circumstances and the pending legal action, they've agreed to flag the accounts for additional verification on any outgoing transfers.
Nothing leaves without a second confirmation." He folded his hands.
"Your mother's money is safe."
I sat back in the chair.
For the first time since that morning, something in my chest loosened slightly.
"Harold," I said.
"The attorney Vanessa hired.
Do you know them?"
"I know of them.
They handle civil disputes.
Domestic matters." He paused carefully.
"They also, on occasion, represent clients in matters involving private financial arrangements."
I looked at him.
"Hale's people?" I said.
"I can't say that with certainty." He met my eyes.
"But the timing is notable."
My phone buzzed on the edge of his desk.
Unknown number.
I answered it.
"Mr.
Calloway." A man's voice.
Smooth.
Unhurried.
"My name is Marcus Hale.
I think it's time we spoke directly."
The room went very still.
Harold's eyes moved to my face.
I held up one finger and he nodded.
"All right," I said.
"I want you to understand something," Hale said.
"Your wife made some poor decisions.
I helped her when no one else would.
What happened with your mother's account — that was Vanessa's choice.
I never asked her to involve family."
"That's a very careful way to say it."
"I'm a careful person." A pause.
"I'm also a reasonable one.
I think this situation has gotten more complicated than it needs to be.
I think there's a version of this where everyone walks away without further disruption."
"What version is that?"
"The transfers stay where they are.
No legal action.
No police involvement.
Vanessa's filing gets withdrawn.
And in exchange, I make sure your mother's remaining assets are never touched again." Another pause.
"I'm offering you a clean exit, Mr.
Calloway."
I looked at Harold across the desk.
Harold was already writing on a notepad.
He turned it toward me.
*Keep him talking.
Get a time and location.*
"That's a generous offer," I said.
"I'd want to discuss the details in person."
"I thought you might." Hale's voice didn't change.
"Tomorrow morning.
I'll send you an address."
"Fine," I said.
"Send it."
The call ended.
Harold set down his pen.
"He called you directly," he said.
"Yes."
May you like
"That means he's worried." Harold picked up his own phone.
"I'm calling Detective Reyes."
