In the petition for a restraining order, Dorothy was described as emotionally compromised, disruptive to the children’s routine, and prone to irrational hostility toward the surviving parent.
Dorothy read every line in Emmett’s office and felt something cold settle over her.
Not shock.
Recognition.
This was what men like Grant did when facts threatened them. They did not answer the facts. They attacked the witness.
“She was emotionally compromised,” Dorothy said dryly. “Her daughter died.”
“Apparently they were hoping the court would hold that against you,” Emmett replied.
He slid another sheet across the desk. Laurel Ashford’s signed statement.
In it, Laurel claimed Dorothy had been “hysterical” at the hospital, “aggressive” at the pediatrician’s office, and “incapable of respecting the father’s primary role.” She suggested Dorothy’s presence might damage the babies’ emotional development.
Dorothy put the paper down carefully.
“Pearls and poison,” she murmured.
Emmett almost smiled. “I always suspected.”
But if Grant’s team meant to define Dorothy first, they had underestimated the paperwork Colleen left behind.
By then, Emmett’s office had assembled a timeline the length of a dining table: affair records, bank transfers, the forged increase to Colleen’s life insurance policy six months before delivery, and the proof that the signature on the new insurance documents did not match her known handwriting.
A handwriting analyst’s report sat clipped to the file.
“High probability of forgery,” the expert wrote.
Dorothy read that line twice.
Grant had not merely lied to Colleen.
He had planned around her.
Meanwhile, at Birchwood Lane, Vivian had moved beyond the guesthouse and into something dangerously close to performance motherhood. She walked the babies in the garden wearing cream sweaters and soft smiles. She told neighbors she was “helping the family heal.” She corrected a pharmacy clerk who called her Miss Holloway by saying, “Actually, it’s basically Mrs. Ashford in practice.”
One Saturday morning Dorothy arrived for her supervised visit and found Colleen’s photographs removed from the mantel.
Every single one.
Wedding picture gone. Maternity photo gone. Colleen laughing at a pumpkin patch gone. Even a candid snapshot of her barefoot in the backyard, one hand under her enormous belly, gone.
In their place stood neutral ceramic vases and abstract art in beige tones.