He sat at his kitchen table that evening with his phone and went back two years.

He had not read these messages in a long time.

He had not wanted to.

After the divorce was finalised he had kept communication with Diane strictly practical — pickups, drop-offs, school events, medical appointments.

He had kept it short and he had kept it civil because Lily was seven and Lily loved her mother and that was the only thing that mattered.

But now he read every message.

*Lily needs new shoes for school.

The ones she has are falling apart.

Can you send extra this month?*

He had sent it the same day.

*The school trip is £45.

I know it's not in the order but she really wants to go.*

Sent it.

*Dentist said she needs a small filling.

£80.

I'll cover the rest.*

Sent it.

*Her winter coat is too small.

She's been wearing it since she was five.

Please, Daniel.*

Sent it.

He photographed every one and sent them to Marcus in a single batch.

Then he kept scrolling.

Not looking for evidence now.

Just reading.

There was a message from fourteen months ago that stopped him.

*She asked me why she can't have new trainers like the other girls.

I didn't know what to tell her.

I told her we were saving up.

She said okay.

She's such a good kid, Daniel.

She never complains.*

He read it three times.

Lily had been asking about new shoes for over a year.

Her mother had told her they were saving up.

While the money sat in an account and was withdrawn in cash every forty-eight hours.

He put the phone down and pressed both hands flat on the table.

His daughter had accepted it.

She had said okay and she had not complained and she had carried a folded piece of paper in her small backpack because something in her seven-year-old instinct had told her that her father should know.

His phone buzzed.

A message from a number he didn't recognise.

*This is Karen Marsh.

Diane's mother.

I think we should speak before this goes any further.

I can explain the account.

It's not what it looks like.

Please call me.*

He stared at it.

Then he forwarded it to Marcus with a single line: *Diane's mother just contacted me directly.*

Marcus replied in four minutes.

*Do not call her.

Do not respond.

This is significant — I'll explain tomorrow.*

He set the phone down.

Outside, it had started to rain.

He thought about Lily in her silver-starred shoes, asleep in her room at Diane's house, with no idea that two adults were now circling each other through solicitors and text messages and a folded bank statement she had carried to him in her backpack like a gift.

She deserved so much better than this.

His phone buzzed again.

This time it was a number he knew.

Diane.

He watched it ring.

It stopped.

Then a text arrived.

*My mum had nothing to do with this.

Leave her out of it.

This is between you and me.*