Chapter 6: Brandon Makes His Move
The letter to Garrison Cole went out on a Friday.
Brandon called me on Saturday morning.
I was at my sister Diane's house, where the children and I had been staying since the night we left.
Diane had made up the guest room for me and put an air mattress in her sewing room for Lucas and Amelia, which they had immediately declared the best sleeping arrangement of their lives.
Amelia had named the ceiling fan Gerald in honour of the fish.
I was sitting at Diane's kitchen table with a cup of tea when my phone rang.
Brandon's name on the screen.
I answered it.
"You sent a letter to Garrison Cole." His voice was controlled, but only just.
"Rachel did, yes."
"You had no right—"
"I'm a co-owner of the property, Brandon.
Rachel had every right.
So did I."
A pause.
When he spoke again, the control had tightened another notch.
"I want to talk about the children."
"You can talk to Rachel about the children."
"I'm talking to you.
I'm their father."
"Then act like it.
Call Rachel."
"Charlotte." The reasonable tone again.
The one that used to make me second-guess myself.
"You're making this harder than it needs to be.
I made a mistake.
Bringing Cynthia to the house — that was wrong.
I know that.
But you are carrying my child and you have taken my other two children to your sister's house and I have not seen them in six days."
I looked out Diane's kitchen window at the back garden.
Lucas was pushing Amelia on the small swing Diane's husband had built for their own grandchildren.
"You can arrange a visit through Rachel," I said.
"I don't want to arrange a visit through a lawyer.
I want to see my children."
"Then you should have thought about that before you spent twenty-two months moving money out of their education fund."
Silence.
"David told you everything," he said finally.
"David told Rachel everything.
Rachel told me."
Another silence, longer this time.
"I can explain the transfers."
"I'm sure you can.
You can explain them to the forensic accountant."
"Charlotte, listen to me." The reasonable tone was gone now.
What replaced it was something I had heard only a few times in nine years — the voice Brandon used when he had run out of other options.
"If you push this, I will make it very difficult for you.
I have resources you don't have.
I have people who will testify to your emotional state during this pregnancy.
I have documentation—"
"Of what?"
He stopped.
"What documentation, Brandon?"
Nothing.
"You built a story about me for months," I said.
"I know that.
I knew it while you were building it.
But a story needs evidence, and the evidence you have is people repeating things you told them." I kept my voice even.
"What I have is a forensic accountant, a recorder, a signed petition, two witnesses who were in that dining room, and David Fenwick." I paused.
"What would you like to do with your documentation?"
The line was quiet for a long time.
"I need to see my children," he said.
His voice had changed again.
Smaller.
I didn't let that move me — I had learned, slowly and painfully, that Brandon's vulnerability and Brandon's strategy were sometimes the same thing.
"Call Rachel," I said.
"She'll arrange something fair."
I ended the call.
Diane appeared in the kitchen doorway with her own cup of tea, looking at me carefully.
"How bad was it?"
"He threatened me.
Then he backed down." I set the phone on the table.
"He mentioned documentation."
"What documentation?"
"He doesn't have any.
He was hoping I didn't know that."
Diane sat down across from me.
"Charlotte.
Are you all right?"
I watched Lucas push Amelia on the swing.
Her laugh came through the glass, high and clear and completely unconcerned with any of it.
"I will be," I said.
That afternoon, Rachel called.
May you like
Brandon had retained new counsel — a firm called Mercer & Voss, known for aggressive tactics in high-asset divorce cases.
The reasonable tone was over.
