The days that followed her confrontation with Grace were quiet—but not calm.
Emma had stopped speaking to her mother.
Stopped answering Olivia's texts.
Stopped pretending anything in her life made sense anymore.
Instead, she buried herself in what remained of Michael Morgan. Letters. Photographs. Bits of poetry scrawled on napkins. A receipt from a toy store dated the same week as her ninth birthday—though she'd never received anything from it.
James had given her space, but she called him that Friday morning.
"I want to do something," she said. "Legally. Officially."
⸻
At the county solicitor's office in Eastmark, James introduced Emma to Caroline Wren, a retired barrister who had once helped Michael in his failed custody suit.
Caroline had thinning blonde hair and a voice like steel wrapped in velvet.
"I remember him well," she said, offering Emma her hand. "Bright eyes. Big heart. Terrible temper in court—God rest him."
Emma gave a sad smile. "That sounds about right."
Caroline pulled out a thin file from a locked cabinet.
"This is all that remains of the case. Most of it was sealed due to the private nature of the proceedings. But you're his daughter. And under Section 23, you have the right to request a review. Especially if you suspect… foul handling."
Emma glanced at James.
"Are you saying the case could be reopened?" she asked.
"In a limited capacity, yes," Caroline replied. "But be warned—doing this may stir things better left buried."
Emma clenched her jaw. "They buried the truth for twenty-five years. I think it's time to dig."
⸻
The file wasn't thick. A few court transcripts. Character statements. A psychological assessment request that had never been completed. But tucked behind one of the pages was something that hadn't been submitted at all:
A handwritten note from Michael to Caroline. Dated two days before the hearing.
Emma unfolded it carefully.
"If anything happens to me—if this gets buried—I want her to know I fought. I want her to know I was lied about. Tell her about the photo. The one Grace never let the court see. That photo proves everything. It proves she lied about where I was that night."
Emma's hands trembled.
"There was a photo?" she asked. "What was it?"
Caroline frowned. "I don't know. He mentioned it once. Said it placed him somewhere public during the argument Grace used to justify the restraining order. He believed it would clear him of the emotional abuse claim."
"Why wasn't it submitted?"
"He said it went missing the night before the hearing. From his flat."
James straightened. "You think Grace took it?"
Caroline didn't answer. But her eyes said enough.
Emma felt nausea twist in her stomach.
So it hadn't just been deception.
It had been sabotage.
⸻
That evening, back in Ravenshade, Emma sat in the same room where her mother had once woven her version of history.
But this time, Emma had the thread.
She stared at the photo of her younger self, then picked up one of Michael's letters—dated her twelfth birthday.
"I saw you walking home from school. You had red ribbons in your hair. I wanted to cross the street so badly. But I didn't. I didn't want to scare you. Still, I think you saw me. You smiled. Maybe you didn't know who I was, but your heart did."
Emma wiped her cheek and looked out the window.
She remembered that day.
She had smiled at someone.
She never knew why.
Now she did.
⸻
She picked up her phone and called James.
"I want to find that photo," she said.
"You think it's still out there?"
Emma stood, steady now.
"I think it's somewhere Grace thought I'd never look."
⸻
The chapter ends with Emma driving to her childhood home, not to speak—but to search.
She's no longer afraid of the truth.
She's afraid of not finding all of it.