Chapter 4 - STELLAN’S LAWYER
Stellan had consulted a divorce attorney six weeks before the snowstorm.
He had not filed.
I learned that from him, not a subpoena.
We were seated in separate conference rooms at Maren Shaw’s office.
Our attorneys moved between.
My family-law attorney was Delia Ross.
Fresh name? Fine.
Stellan’s was Conrad Hale.
I asked:
“Why divorce?”
Stellan stared at the table.
“We’ve been bad for a year.”
“We argued.”
“Constantly.”
“About your mother.”
“And money.”
There.
“What money?”
He looked toward Conrad.
His lawyer shook his head.
Not yet.
I felt anger rise.
Then Delia said:
“Callista, we’re here to address parenting and immediate safety. Financial disclosure will come.”
I hated process.
Process kept us honest.
Stellan admitted downloading a standard temporary parenting-plan worksheet.
He checked father as primary residence.
“Why?”
“If we separated, you work long hours.”
“So do you.”
“My schedule is more local.”
“What about Bodie’s school?”
“He stays.”
“And me?”
“You were talking about moving closer to your firm’s new office in Hartford.”
That was true.
A forty-minute change.
Not another state.
Still.
Then:
“Why had you not told me you were considering divorce?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“But you were sure enough to plan keeping Bodie.”
He looked down.
“I was scared you’d take him.”
The same fear seemed to infect every Norwood.
Take.
Lose.
Keep.
Children as location.
Then Delia asked:
“Did Gretchen know you had consulted counsel?”
“Yes.”
My heart sank.
“Did she see the draft?”
“I don’t know.”
The notebook proved she had at least part.
“Did you ask her to document Bodie’s meals?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss Callista’s parenting with her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Stellan’s face reddened.
“I complained.”
“About?”
“She’s permissive.”
I laughed.
“Permissive.”
“Callista.”
“No. Say it.”
He continued.
“She lets Bodie snack instead of finishing meals.”
Because he is five.
“She sometimes works late.”
Two nights a week from home.
“She lets him sleep in our bed after nightmares.”
Not abuse.
“She undermines me when I set consequences.”
“Such as?”
“Screen limits.”
“Did you ever tell Gretchen Bodie was underfed?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her he lacked structure?”
“Yes.”
Words matter.
Gretchen built architecture from his complaints.
Then Delia asked the most important question.
“Did you know your mother was writing a record?”
Stellan hesitated.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did you think it was for?”
“To help if we needed mediation.”
Not court?
Maybe.
Then:
“Did you know she withheld food?”
“No.”
“Did you know the pantry was locked?”
“Yes.”
“Did you object?”
“I thought Bodie knew he could ask.”
The child had asked.
That was the point.
Then the cabin.
Delia:
“Did Gretchen know Callista owns it?”
Stellan shook his head.
“She thought Dad still did.”
“Why?”
“I never corrected her.”
“Did you tell her Callista had only refinanced?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
Eighteen months of lying.
“Why?”
“Mom would have lost her mind.”
“She had no right to the house.”
“It’s been in the family since I was ten.”
“Then your father shouldn’t have collateralized it.”
He flinched.
Not kind.
True.
Then:
“Why was she afraid I could sell it if we divorced?”
Stellan looked at the parenting draft.
“She found out somehow.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
The paperwork police found included no deed.
But Gretchen knew enough to say:
Daddy gets me. House stays.
Bodie had heard something.
Then the first financial clue.
A folder recovered from Stellan’s briefcase.
Snowline Development Partners.
His side business.
I knew it existed.
What I did not know:
Snowline had missed two lender payments.
Nor:
Stellan had personally guaranteed a bridge loan.
Nor:
One lender memo listed the Norwood cabin as “anticipated supplemental collateral subject to spouse/titleholder consent.”
My name appeared beside:
CONSENT PENDING.
I had never consented to anything.
The property and the parenting plan were no longer separate worries.
May you like
Someone expected my signature.
And tomorrow had apparently been the deadline.
