Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the System
The guest suite was larger than the entire lower floor of my old duplex. It featured two plush queen beds made up with soft Egyptian cotton sheets, a private bathroom with a deep soaking tub, and a small sitting area with a television.
That night, for the first time in nine days, my daughters slept deeply.
Hadley was curled under a thick down comforter, her arm wrapped around Ruthie, both of them breathing in slow, rhythmic cycles that told me their little minds finally felt safe.
I, however, couldn't sleep.
At 2:00 a.m., I wrapped a soft fleece throw blanket around my shoulders and walked quietly down the grand oak staircase. The house was dimly lit by warm nightlights.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I noticed a line of yellow light spilling from beneath the double doors of Vincent’s study. The faint sound of paper rustling and low, rhythmic typing echoed from inside.
I hesitated, then knocked softly on the door frame.
"Come in, Shelby," Vincent’s deep voice called out instantly.
I pushed the door open. The study was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather-bound volumes, and a heavy mahogany desk covered in neatly organized Manila folders and legal pads. Vincent was sitting behind the desk, his coat off, his crisp white dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.
"I’m sorry to disturb you," I said softly, standing near the doorway.
"You aren't disturbing me," he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "I rarely sleep more than four hours a night anyway. Are the girls comfortable?"
"They’re sleeping like angels," I said, a faint smile touching my lips before it faded. "I... I just came down to say thank you. Properly."
Vincent gestured to a soft leather armchair across from his desk. "Sit down, please."
I walked over and sat down, pulling the fleece blanket tighter around myself. "What did you mean earlier when you said, 'Tomorrow we begin fixing this'?"
Vincent reached across his desk and pulled forward a thick, black leather folder.
"Trent Pruitt is not just a abusive husband, Shelby," Vincent said, his tone turning businesslike. "He is a coward who relies on the fact that you have no resources to fight back. He believes the legal system will favor him because he has a steady income and a house, while you are technically homeless with eleven dollars in your coat pocket."
My stomach tightened. "He’s right. That’s what the lady at the legal aid office told me before I left. Without a shelter address or money for a retainer, I can't win a custody battle."
Vincent leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, looking directly into my eyes.
"He was right," Vincent corrected softly. "Until eight o'clock tonight. At 8:30 p.m., I called Evelyn Vance. She is the senior partner at Vance, Mercer & Cole—the most formidable family law firm in the state of Ohio. She will be representing you in court, free of charge."
My breath hitched in my throat. "I... I can't afford a lawyer like that!"
"I am covering her retainer," Vincent said smoothly. "Furthermore, my investigators spent the last four hours digging into your husband’s financial records."
He slid a document across the desk toward me.
"Trent has been claiming three non-existent sub-contractors on his roofing business tax returns for three years to hide cash income," Vincent explained. "He also has two prior domestic disturbance calls logged in a neighboring county from before he met you—records he paid a court clerk to expunge from public search databases."
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I stared at the papers in disbelief. "How did you find all of this in four hours?"
Vincent offered a small, dangerous smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I have very capable people working for me, Mrs. Pruitt. By the time we step into family court on Monday morning, Trent Pruitt will not be asking for custody. He will be begging the judge to keep him out of federal prison."
