Chapter 7 - Number Twenty
Matthew Carter was arrested again the next morning.
This time, the charges were different.
Witness tampering.
Conspiracy to falsify official records.
Unlawful access to protected information.
The prosecutor emphasized that the investigation was ongoing.
Matthew’s attorney called it speculation.
Matthew called it revenge.
Outside the courthouse, reporters gathered.
Emma watched the coverage from the shelter.
Matthew appeared wearing a navy suit.
He looked exhausted but composed.
Exactly how a respectable husband should look after being falsely accused.
His attorney spoke first.
“My client categorically denies harming his wife or conspiring against her in any way. Mr. Carter is deeply concerned for Emma’s emotional and physical health and remains focused on the welfare of their unborn child.”
Emma turned off the television.
“He’s still doing it.”
Teresa sat beside her.
“Doing what?”
“Calling me unstable without saying the word.”
Teresa nodded.
“That statement was written carefully.”
“He wants people to doubt me.”
“Then we keep building facts.”
Facts came quickly now.
Caleb Grant’s department audit found eleven unofficial incident entries associated with addresses involved in family court disputes.
Seven involved women who later lost temporary custody.
Four involved David Weller.
Three involved Redbridge.
Grant denied altering anything.
Weller retained an attorney.
Jonah Bell refused an interview.
Then Detective Mills found Number 12.
Her name was Olivia Reyes.
Unlike Rachel, Olivia had not disappeared.
She lived two states away.
And she agreed to talk.
The meeting was arranged by secure video.
Emma sat beside Teresa.
Olivia appeared on screen wearing a simple black sweater.
She was thirty-seven.
Her expression changed when Emma introduced herself.
“You’re pregnant.”
Emma nodded.
“Eight months.”
Olivia’s face tightened.
“Get away from your husband.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
“You know Redbridge?”
Olivia looked off camera.
“How did you hear that name?”
“My husband paid them.”
Olivia closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she looked angry rather than afraid.
“My ex paid them too.”
Emma leaned closer.
“What are they?”
“I don’t know what they call themselves. Consultants. Mediators. Private family advisers.”
“What do they actually do?”
Olivia gave a humorless laugh.
“They find leverage.”
She described her marriage.
Financial control.
Isolation.
A husband who wanted custody because his wealthy parents had threatened to cut him off if he “lost the family.”
Olivia tried to leave.
Suddenly complaints appeared.
Neglect.
Drug use.
Instability.
A police officer documented incidents she denied.
A family services employee recommended emergency monitoring.
Her attorney advised compromise.
Her husband offered one.
Leave the marriage quietly.
Accept supervised visitation.
Do not contest financial assets.
Otherwise, the allegations would become public.
Emma whispered, “Did you agree?”
“For six months.”
“What changed?”
“My son got sick.”
Olivia’s voice trembled.
“I went to the hospital against the custody order. A nurse saw how scared he was of his father.”
That nurse reported suspected abuse.
The case reopened.
Olivia eventually regained custody.
Her husband went to prison for unrelated financial fraud.
“What happened to Redbridge?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because officially they were just consultants.”
Olivia leaned toward the camera.
“Redbridge doesn’t need to own the judge. They don’t need to own the whole police department. They only need one person in each place.”
Emma thought of Grant.
Weller.
Someone at the hospital, perhaps.
“One person to create a record,” Olivia continued. “One person to repeat it. One person to make it look credible.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
“For custody?”
“For whatever their clients want.”
Emma stared at her.
“Who runs it?”
Olivia shook her head.
“I never found out.”
“Did you see this man?”
Emma held the photograph toward the camera.
The gray-haired stranger.
Olivia’s face changed.
She moved closer.
“Yes.”
Emma’s heart pounded.
“Who is he?”
“He called himself Mr. Vale.”
“First name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he do?”
Olivia took a breath.
“He came to my house one week after I left my husband.”
Emma went still.
“What did he say?”
“He offered me a way out.”
“What kind?”
“Money. New identity. A job in another state.”
“In exchange for what?”
“My son.”
The room fell silent.
Emma felt nauseated.
Olivia continued.
“He said some women are happier when they stop fighting battles they cannot win.”
Emma pressed her hands over her stomach.
“What happened when you refused?”
Olivia’s voice dropped.
“Three days later, police found prescription pills in my car.”
“Were they yours?”
“No.”
Emma looked at Detective Mills, who was standing outside camera range.
He was taking notes rapidly.
Olivia said, “Listen carefully. They don’t just manipulate custody cases. They manufacture surrender.”
After the call ended, nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Mills’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression shifted.
“What?”
He walked toward the door.
“When?”
Another pause.
“We’re coming.”
Emma stood.
“What happened?”
Mills looked at Teresa.
Then Emma.
“Jonah Bell was found in his garage twenty minutes ago.”
“Dead?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“He was unconscious.”
Mills grabbed his coat.
“And someone had written one word across his garage wall.”
May you like
Emma already knew before he said it.
Twenty.
