"Yes."
"And he left her a message like that."
"There are three more on there."
I didn't play them.
Not yet.
I picked up the printed text conversation instead.
The timestamps ran across three days.
Carter's messages were short and cold.
My daughter's were longer, more desperate, trying to reason with someone who had already decided.
Near the bottom, one of his messages read: *This conversation never happened.
Delete everything.
I mean it.*
She hadn't deleted anything.
"She was protecting him," I said.
"All that time she was protecting him."
"She was protecting you," Diane said quietly.
"And the baby.
She was afraid of what he'd do if she named him."
I set the papers down.
"I need a lawyer."
"I know someone," Diane said.
"A woman.
Family law.
She's seen cases like this before."
"Has she seen cases where the father waited ten years and then decided he wanted the child because of an inheritance?"
Diane's jaw tightened.
"She's seen worse."
My phone buzzed on the table.
An unknown number.
I stared at it.
It rang four times and stopped.
Then a text came through: *Mrs.
