Also by Gin Phillips
Fierce Kingdom
Come In and Cover Me
The Well and the Mine
VIKING
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Copyright © 2021 by Gin Phillips
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Phillips, Gin, author.
Title: Family law: a novel / Gin Phillips.
Description: New York: Viking, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020018482 (print) | LCCN 2020018483 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984880628 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984880635 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3616.H4556 F36 2021 (print) | LCC PS3616.H4556 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020018482
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020018483
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Lynn Buckley
Cover art: magnolia, Sally Crosthwaite / Bridgeman Images
pid_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0
For Lisa A. Woodard
Contents
Cover
Also by Gin Phillips
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
1979
Lucia
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
1981
Rachel
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Lucia
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Rachel
Chapter I
Chapter II
Lucia
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Rachel
Chapter I
1982
Rachel
Chapter I
Chapter II
Lucia
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Rachel
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Lucia
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Rachel
Chapter I
Chapter II
Lucia
Chapter I
Rachel
Chapter I
Lucia
Chapter I
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Your children are not your children. . . .
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls. . . .
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
—Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
It’s wise to know where you come from, who called your name.
—Maya Angelou
1979
Lucia
I.
Lucia Gilbert listened as the two men in sherbet-colored suits spun their fairy tale.
“I bathe her,” said the father, leaning forward on the witness stand. “Put on diaper cream. Feed her. She loves peaches. Honestly, my daughter is the best part of my day.”
“So you’re an involved parent?” asked his lawyer, Rob Letson, syrup voiced, as if he didn’t know that over the past year the man had repeatedly left his two-year-old daughter home alone.
“I know every hair on her head,” the father said.
He was well packaged, Lucia would give him that. He did not fidget. His pale green suit set off his dark eyes, and his pleasant face was still untouched by his nighttime habits. He kept his hands out of sight, though, and Lucia wondered if Letson had finally noticed that his client’s fingertips were like open wounds, chewed so ravenously that the nail beds were infected. Lucia spent a decent portion of her days reaching across one desk or another to shake a hand—sun blotched, meaty, limp, veins bulging, nails glossy as buttons—and hands could tell you things.
Netta Peterson nudged Lucia with a sharp elbow. “He’s lying.”
Lucia patted her client’s hand. Netta and her husband were both white haired and crinkle-eyed: their only flaws were Richard’s Lucky Strikes and Netta’s chattiness.
“She hasn’t touched peaches for months,” Netta hissed. “When Bethany was alive, the man never did anything. He didn’t even mow the yard. Or change a lightbulb.”
“I know, Netta,” Lucia whispered.
At the front of the courtroom, Rob Letson scuffed one loafer along the wooden floor. “Your late wife’s parents are accusing you of negligence. Do you believe they have any motivation other than the welfare of your daughter?”
“We’re accusing him of getting so loaded that we can’t wake him up,” Netta muttered, warm breathed. She smelled of baby powder and, possibly, bacon. “The baby crying in the crib, soaked through.”
Lucia patted her hand more firmly.
“I believe,” the father said, “that since they lost their daughter—my Bethany—they want to start over with their granddaughter. It’s like—this is terrible to say, I know—they think they’re owed a replacement.”
Netta jerked hard enough that her chair tipped slightly.
Letson walked to his table, lifting a paper in a plastic sleeve. “Did your in-laws ever express that thought in writing?”
Lucia had known he would try this. The nasty letter had no date and no envelope. It likely had been typed by the father himself.
“I object, Your Honor,” she said. “That document has not been authenticated.”
“Sustained,” said Judge Mitchell, a petite man who looked even smaller in his robes.
Rob dropped his arm, the letter slapping his thigh. “Mr. Thompson, have the Petersons ever attempted to keep your daughter from you?”
“They threatened me.”
“How did they threaten you?”
“I object,” Lucia said. “At the risk of being repetitive, the document Mr. Letson is referencing has not been authenticated.”
The pleasant-faced father lifted a hand, brushing at one smooth lapel. She could see his gnawed fingers.
“Sustained,” said the judge.
Letson walked over to Lucia’s table and bent down, his gold watch catching the overhead lights.
“Gilbert,” he said, quietly enough that the judge couldn’t hear, “you don’t even know what the word ‘authentication’ means.”
She let her eyes drift to his belt buckle.
“Letson,” she said, “your fly is unzipped.”
His eyes flickered down, assessing. He ran a hand, quickly, from hip bone to hip bone. His zipper was fine.
Lucia smiled.
“Mr. Letson?” said Judge Mitchell. “Ms. Gilbert?”
Rob delayed one more second. He leaned closer to Lucia.
“Fuck you,” he said.
Netta Peterson inhaled sharply.
“It’s fine,” Lucia said to the older woman as Letson turned away. “He just knows he’s going to lose.”
He’d known it, surely, from the beginning. Why had he even taken this case? Rob Letson was one of the good ones. He enjoyed the back-and-forth of it all, and when she beat him, he would offer to buy her a drink and then harass her for disliking beer.
“He’s hateful,” Netta whispered, wide-eyed.
Lucia
