Sasha Brennan arrived at Patricia's office on a Tuesday morning, eleven days before the full preliminary hearing.

She had not come voluntarily.

She had come because of the subpoena.

But she had also, Patricia told me afterward, called the office the day before to ask if she could speak with someone before her formal deposition.

I was not in the room for that conversation.

Patricia was.

And Dara.

And a court reporter.

Patricia gave me the summary that afternoon.

I sat across from her desk with Emily asleep in the carrier and Rachel beside me, and Patricia told us what Sasha Brennan had said.

She had been with Derek for fourteen months.

It had begun as what she described as a professional relationship that became personal.

He had told her, within the first few months, that his marriage was effectively over.

That his wife was emotionally unstable.

That he was staying only because of financial complications and because Megan had become dependent on him in ways that made leaving complicated.

"He used the word *dependent,*" Patricia said.

"Multiple times.

He told Sasha that you couldn't function without him.

That you had no skills, no money, no support system.

That he felt trapped by your neediness."

Rachel made a sound.

I kept my eyes on Patricia.

"He told her the pregnancy was unplanned," Patricia continued.

"That he wasn't sure the marriage would survive it.

That he was trying to figure out the right time to end things."

"He told me he wanted a family," I said.

"I know."

"He told me the pregnancy was something we had planned together."

"I know, Megan."

The room was quiet for a moment.

"What else?" I said.

"The night Emily was born — Sasha knew you were in labor.

Derek told her at dinner.

She said she asked him if he should go to the hospital.

He told her you had a cab and that you were being dramatic about the contractions."

Rachel stood up.

She walked to the window and stood there with her back to us.

"He told his girlfriend," Rachel said, very carefully, "that his wife in active labor was being dramatic."

"Yes."

"While he was at dinner with her."

"Yes."

I looked down at Emily.

*Dramatic.*

The same word his mother had used on the phone.

The same word in his texts.

*Stop being dramatic.*

It wasn't a coincidence.

It was a script.

A word he had used so many times it had become automatic.

A word designed to make the person hearing it doubt themselves.

I had heard that word for three years.

I had believed it for two of them.

"Does she understand what she's walked into?" I said.

"She's beginning to," Patricia said.

"She came here because she found out about the other women.

Dara located a woman in Cincinnati — one of the three Linda referred to us — who was willing to speak with Sasha directly." Patricia paused.

"When Sasha heard the Cincinnati woman's account of her relationship with Derek, she said, and I'm quoting directly from the deposition transcript: *He used the same words.

Almost exactly the same words.*"

The same words.

The same script.

A different woman in each city, each one told she was the stable one.

Each one told the wife was unstable, dependent, dramatic.

Each one believing she was the exception.

"She's going to testify," I said.

"Yes," Patricia said.

"She's going to testify that Derek told her you were in labor and chose to stay at dinner.

She's going to testify about the fourteen months.

She's going to testify about what he said about you." Patricia folded her hands.

"She is not doing this to help you, Megan.

She's doing it because she's angry.

But angry witnesses who tell the truth are still witnesses who tell the truth."

Rachel turned back from the window.

"What does Warren Gould do with this?"

"He'll try to discredit her.

He'll argue she's a scorned employee acting out of personal grievance.

He'll try to keep as much of it out as possible." Patricia looked at me.

"But the financial records stand on their own.

The texts stand on their own.

The reservation record stands on its own.

Sasha is one more piece.

She is not the whole case."

"What is the whole case?" I said.

Patricia opened the folder on her desk.

"The whole case," she said, "is a pattern.

And patterns, when you document them carefully enough, speak for themselves."

She turned the folder toward me.

Inside was a timeline.

Dates, incidents, amounts, words.

Everything I had written on the legal pad in the hospital.

Everything the bank records showed.

Every appointment Derek had skipped, every account he had locked me out of, every time he had used the word *dramatic* or *unstable* or *you wouldn't survive without me.*

Three years of my life, organized into evidence.

I looked at it for a long time.

Then I looked up at Patricia.

"He's going to walk into that courtroom in twelve days," I said, "and he still thinks he's going to win."

"Yes," she said.

"Because he's always won before."

"Yes."

"Because the other women didn't have this."

Patricia looked at the folder, then back at me.

"No," she said quietly.

"They didn't."

Emily stirred against my chest.

I put my hand on her back.

Twelve days.