Chapter 7: The Photograph
I called Patricia from the hallway outside my office door, the envelope in my hand.
"Don't touch the back of the photograph any more than you already have," she said.
"Bag it.
Bring it to me first thing tomorrow."
"This is Grant."
"Most likely.
It could also be someone acting on his behalf." Her voice was steady.
"Claire, this is actually useful."
"Someone is following me."
"Someone is scared enough to follow you.
There's a difference." I heard her moving, the sound of a chair.
"This goes to the DA alongside everything else.
Intimidation of a witness or party in a legal proceeding is a separate offense.
If Grant's prints are on that photograph, or if we can trace the envelope—"
"They won't be that careless."
"Probably not.
But the act itself is on record now." A pause.
"Are you somewhere safe?"
"My office."
"Stay there tonight if you need to.
Or go somewhere they don't know about.
Not the penthouse — I assume Ryan still has a key."
"He does."
"Change the locks tomorrow.
I'll have the paperwork to support that by morning."
I looked down at the envelope.
The photograph.
My own face looking back at me from across a street I hadn't known anyone was watching.
"Patricia.
The seventy-two hours I gave them to clear out — that ends tomorrow night."
"I know.
I'm filing for the protective order first thing.
Once that's in place, if any of them attempt to enter the penthouse without your explicit permission, it becomes a police matter." She paused.
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired," I said honestly.
"That's reasonable." Her voice was quieter now.
"Get some sleep.
Eat something.
You're six months pregnant and you've been running on adrenaline since midnight.
The case will still be here tomorrow."
I set the envelope on my desk and sat down.
She was right.
I knew she was right.
But I also knew that Grant Calloway had spent his entire life being the man in the room who decided what happened next.
He'd built a contracting business on the principle that if you controlled the information, you controlled the outcome.
He'd raised a son who held women down and called it discipline.
He wasn't going to walk away because I filed paperwork.
I ate a sandwich from the vending machine down the hall.
I called my OB's after-hours line and described the burn and the stress of the past twenty-four hours.
The nurse told me to come in first thing in the morning and to monitor for any cramping or changes.
The baby was moving normally.
That was what mattered.
I slept on the office couch again.
Four hours, maybe five.
At six-fifteen, my phone rang.
Brooke.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
"I couldn't sleep.
I've been going through my own messages — things Ryan sent me over the past two years.
There's one from eight months ago.
The week after I saw the Melissa message on his phone." Her voice was tight.
"He told me that if I ever repeated what I saw, he would tell Mom and Dad that I'd been stealing from the family business.
That I'd been taking money."
"Had you been?"
"No.
Never." She was quiet for a moment.
"But Dad would have believed Ryan.
He always believes Ryan.
And I was scared, so I stayed quiet."
"Brooke." I kept my voice careful.
"Do you still have that message?"
"Yes."
"Don't delete it.
Screenshot it and send it to me.
Then send it to Patricia Wren." I paused.
"Ryan threatened you to keep you quiet.
That's witness tampering.
It's been sitting in your phone for eight months."
A long exhale.
"I didn't know it had a name."
"It does." I sat up on the couch, my coat still over my shoulders.
"You're not in trouble, Brooke.
You're a witness.
There's a difference."
"I'm scared of what Dad will do."
"I know.
But you already told the truth last night when it was hardest.
Everything after that is easier." I paused.
"Patricia will protect you.
That's her job."
Another silence.
Then: "Okay.
I'm sending the screenshot now."
My phone buzzed.
I opened the message.
Ryan's words, eight months old, sitting in a thread between a brother and sister like a stone dropped in still water.
*If you tell anyone what you think you saw, I'll make sure Dad knows about the accounts.
Don't test me, Brooke.*
I forwarded it to Patricia with one line: *New evidence.
Witness tampering.
Call me when you're up.*
I set the phone down.
Outside, Denver was just beginning to go light.
The first day of the new year, grey and cold and very still.
May you like
Somewhere across the city, Grant Calloway was waking up.
I wondered if he'd slept at all.
