Chapter 3
The notification chimed on my phone at 8:15 the next morning.
Alert from St. Jude Academy: The automatic tuition enrollment for Sophie Walker has been canceled by the primary account holder.
Evan hadn't even waited twenty-four hours to pull the financial lever.
I dialed his direct line. He answered on the first ring.
"I assume you received the update from the academy," Evan said casually.
"Sophie has three weeks left in the semester," I said, keeping my pulse steady. "You promised the mediator her schooling would never be weaponized."
"Circumstances evolve when cooperation fails, Lena," Evan replied.
"Sign the liability waiver and deliver it to Arthur's desk by Friday at five. The moment the ink is dry, her enrollment will be restored. If not, she transfers to the county district school on Monday. The choice is yours."
"You are punishing your own daughter to force a coverup," I said.
"I am managing resources," he countered. "Friday at five, Lena."
I ended the call.
I was not going to sit in a damp apartment and wait for him to suffocate us.
That evening, after leaving Sophie in the care of Mrs. Gable -- the retired surgical nurse across the hall -- I pulled on a dark windbreaker and drove to the commercial ferry terminal.
A thick coastal fog hung over the harbor. I needed to see the damaged vessel, the Starlight, before Evan's crew hauled it into private drydock to grind down the physical evidence.
I slipped through an unlocked maintenance gate near the container yard. But as I approached Berth 4, a cold realization struck me: the high-resolution security cameras along the perimeter fence had all been angled upward, staring blankly at the dark sky.
Before I could reach the ferry's mangled stern, a blinding floodlight pinned me against the concrete.
Two private security guards stepped out from behind a stack of shipping pallets, blocking my retreat.
"Restricted maritime zone, ma'am," the lead guard said, his hand resting on his radio belt. "Step into the harbor office."
Inside the security hut, the supervisor ran my state investigator badge through the terminal reader. He recognized my last name on the screen and reached for the desk phone.
"We can call Mr. Walker directly to handle this quietly off the record," the supervisor suggested with subtle condescension.
I knew what Evan wanted -- a logged record of his 'erratic' ex-wife begging for his intervention.
"Do not call Evan Walker," I said firmly. "Log the security incident under my legal badge number. I am leaving."
Ten minutes later, as I walked past the harbor turnstiles into the cold night air, my phone buzzed violently.
The caller ID displayed Carla Hayes, our court-appointed family mediator.
"Lena, where on earth are you?" Carla's voice was sharp with panic.
"Evan's legal team just filed an emergency ex-parte petition with the family court. They submitted a terminal security affidavit claiming you are suffering an emotional breakdown, trespassing on industrial docks, and unfit to retain custody of Sophie."