The Investigator
The lawyer Noor hired with the fundraiser money was a tired, precise woman named Priya Osei who specialized in exactly the kind of buried-record cases Wesley hadn't known had a specialty. She read both documents in eleven minutes flat and said the sentence that undid him more than anything else that week: "This should never have gotten past the pediatrician's desk. Somebody didn't do their job, twenty-two years ago, and you paid for it."
Not you did something wrong. Somebody didn't do their job.
It took Wesley three days to stop flinching every time someone said his name in a hallway.
The fundraiser had crossed a hundred and eighty thousand dollars by then, and half the internet wanted the feel-good version — reunited busker and daughter, a bow on the story, a morning show offer that would pay well and ask no hard questions. Noor turned every one of them down without asking Wesley first, which annoyed him for about four seconds until he understood why: any spotlight bright enough to help them would also reach Garrick Voss, and give him time to prepare, hide files, resign quietly and vanish into another district three states over, the way men like him always did.
They worked in the dark instead. Priya filed to have the original restraining order reviewed. The private investigator she brought on, funded entirely by strangers who thought they were paying for a guitar, spent four days making calls Wesley wasn't allowed to know the details of — "for your own protection," Noor said — and Wesley let her have that, because for the first time in twenty-two years someone was protecting him instead of that simply never having existed.
On the fifth day, Priya called an emergency meeting in Noor's apartment, laptop open, face unreadable.
"I need you both to sit down," she said, which was becoming a sentence Wesley had learned to dread.
"There's a second file. A different district, six years ago, three states east. Same complaint pattern. It never made it to a hearing either."