Chapter 4: What She Left Behind
The car was still where the driver had parked it, white ribbons tied to the door handles, a small bunch of flowers on the hood that someone had placed there as a decoration.
I untied the ribbons before I put Emily in the back seat.
She watched me do it without speaking.
When I got in beside her, she leaned against my arm.
"Are we going home?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Is Rebecca coming?"
"No."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Is she angry?"
"That's not something you need to worry about."
She nodded slowly, the way she did when she was accepting something she didn't fully understand yet.
Seven years old and already practiced at accepting things.
That thought sat in my chest the whole drive home.
My mother followed in her own car.
When we got to the house, she made tea without asking and put a plate of biscuits on the table for Emily, who ate three of them in silence and then asked if she could watch television.
"Yes," I said.
"Anything you want."
She went to the living room.
My mother sat across from me at the kitchen table.
"How long have you suspected her?" I asked.
"Since Christmas," she said.
"The way she spoke about Emily when she thought I wasn't listening.
Small things.
The way she'd redirect conversations away from Emily's school, her friends.
Once, she told me that children are more adaptable than people give them credit for." She wrapped both hands around her mug.
"She said it like it was reassurance."
"You should have told me."
"I tried twice.
You weren't ready to hear it."
She was right.
I knew she was right.
I didn't say so.
"The document," I said.
"The forged signature.
That's a criminal matter."
"Yes."
"I need to call a solicitor today."
"I already called one this morning," she said.
"David Marsh.
He's expecting you at four o'clock.
I can stay with Emily."
I looked at her across the table.
She had driven to that chapel with an envelope in her hands and faced down a room full of people without raising her voice once.
"Thank you," I said.
She reached over and covered my hand with hers for a moment.
Then she picked up her mug and said nothing more, because she understood that some things don't need to be extended.
I called David Marsh at half past three.
He had already reviewed the document my mother had photographed and sent him that morning.
"The signature is clearly not yours," he said.
"The filing was submitted to the family court six weeks ago.
It hasn't been processed yet — they have a backlog — which is the only reason it hasn't caused immediate legal problems for your daughter."
"What are my options?"
"We file to have it voided immediately.
That's straightforward.
The more significant question is whether you want to pursue the forgery itself as a criminal matter."
"Yes," I said.
A pause.
"I want to make sure you understand what that means.
Rebecca will be formally investigated.
If the Crown Prosecution Service takes it forward, she could face charges."
"I understand."
"All right," he said.
"I'll need you in the office tomorrow morning.
Bring the original document."
I set the phone down on the kitchen counter.
Through the doorway, I could hear the television — some animated program Emily liked, with bright music and characters who spoke in cheerful voices.
I stood there for a moment just listening to it.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from a number I didn't recognize.
*You should know this wasn't only Rebecca's idea.
Call me.
— Gavin*
Gavin was Rebecca's brother.
May you like
I stared at the name on the screen.
Not only Rebecca's idea.
