Fifty-five missed calls.
Twenty-three voicemails.
Drew sat alone in his classroom, the faint smell of dry erase markers and old paper around him, and listened.
Miranda’s first voicemail was pleading. “Drew, please call me back. Please. It’s about Sophie and… everything.”
The second was more panicked. “There are reporters. There are news vans outside my parents’ house. What is happening?”
By the fifth, her voice cracked into something raw. “Please tell me this wasn’t you.”
Margaret’s voicemail was venom wrapped in control. “This is slander. We will sue you into the ground. You will lose your house. You will lose your job. You will lose your child.”
Carl’s voicemail was the one that made Drew’s skin go cold.
“Drew,” Carl said, the confidence stripped away, “I underestimated you. That was foolish. Call me. We can negotiate.”
Drew deleted them all without replying.
Then he opened his laptop and watched the morning news.
Channel 7 ran the segment during their Sunrise broadcast, graphics flashing TURNER & ASSOCIATES UNDER FIRE in bold letters. The anchor’s voice was crisp, the kind people used when they didn’t yet grasp how heavy something was.
The investigative reporter, Violet Schaefer, appeared on screen with files in her hands and a set to her jaw.
She outlined the EPA investigation and the lawsuits. She spoke about alleged illegal dumping at construction sites, about falsified environmental impact reports, about subcontractors claiming they’d been defrauded. She said Turner and Associates had survived 2008 only because of a bailout, despite Carl Turner’s image as a self-made titan.
Then the story pivoted.
The camera showed the Turner mansion exterior, reporters clustered behind police tape.
Violet’s voice lowered. “In addition to business allegations, sources close to the family provided evidence of child neglect.”
Joan Elliot’s face appeared, lit by studio lights, eyes tired with guilt.
“I watched a six-year-old eat scraps from a trash can,” Joan said. “Her grandmother hosted a lavish meal fifteen feet away. When I questioned it, Mrs. Turner said the child needed to learn her place.”
The segment cut to photos Drew had taken on Thanksgiving night. Sophie’s tear-streaked face. The smudged velvet hem. Drew had nearly vomited when he handed them over, but he’d looked at his daughter and promised himself he would not let anyone erase what happened.
The news didn’t treat it like a private family matter.
It treated it like what it was.
A wealthy family scandal. Child neglect. Corruption. Abuse of power.
A story that spread like wildfire.
Cody McConnell called.
“You seeing this?” Cody asked.
“I’m seeing it,” Drew said.
“It’s already national,” Cody said. “Major outlets picked it up. Your in-laws are in full damage control. Miranda’s lawyer called me. They want to settle the divorce quietly.”
Drew’s voice was steady. “No.”
A pause. “No?”
“I want primary custody,” Drew said. “I want supervised visitation until Miranda proves she can put Sophie first. No contact with the Turners. And I want child support. If money is what matters to them, then money will take care of Sophie.”
Cody exhaled. “All right. I’ll draft it. Be ready. They’ll fight.”
That afternoon, Drew picked Sophie up from school. She ran out with her backpack bouncing, hair messy from playground wind.
“Daddy!” she called, bright. “Mrs. Chun said I got all my spelling words right!”
“That’s amazing,” Drew said, smiling so she could see it. He knelt for a hug, holding her longer than usual.
Sophie pulled back, eyes searching his face. Children notice the air shifting even when adults pretend it isn’t.
“Daddy,” she asked cautiously, “why are people on TV talking about Grandma?”
Drew’s chest tightened. He guided her to the car gently.
“Some grown-ups made bad choices,” he said carefully. “And now people are talking about it because it needs to be fixed.”
Sophie chewed on her bottom lip. “Am I in trouble?”
“No,” Drew said immediately. “Never. You did nothing wrong.”
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