Chapter 14
David
The elevator ride is silent, which with Caleb is worse than active harassment.
He’s thinking. Organizing. Building arguments in neat internal columns.
I know, because I do the same thing—and because we inherited the exact same clipped patience from Brent Kingsley and then found different ways to weaponize it.
“For what it’s worth,” he says as we near our father’s floor, “Serena thinks she’s great.
Nora. When she ran into her at the park, she liked her immediately.
” A pause. “Serena doesn’t like people immediately.
She once made a client cry during a first meeting because she told him his crisis management strategy had ‘the structural integrity of a wet napkin.’”
“That’s very Serena.”
“My point is, her judgment is sound. And if Michaela chose Nora, and Serena independently approved of Nora, then the data set is trending in a particular direction.”
“Are you giving me permission now?”
“I’m giving you my professional opinion that the risk is manageable if we’re smart about it.
My personal opinion is that you deserve something good, and you’re so used to not having it that you’ve forgotten what it looks like.
I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he says as the elevator doors open.
“I never know what I’m doing. I’m just better at hiding it than you are.”
“That’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month.” He steps off the elevator and into the lobby. “Also, if Dominic finds out about the Nora arrangement before you’re ready to tell him, he’ll be unbearable. And I mean clinically, diagnostically unbearable. He will compose ballads.”
“Then don’t tell him.”
“I won’t. But Serena might tell Layla, and Layla will tell Bennett, and Bennett will make a face, and Jenna will read the face, and Jenna will tell Dominic, and then it’s over.”
“That’s six degrees of separation.”
“In this friend group, it’s roughly one and a half.”
Dad’s office occupies the thirty-second floor of a building that believes in dark wood, expensive art, and intimidating views.
The receptionist knows us on sight. So does the assistant outside Dad’s corner office, who gives Caleb a look that says “you’re late” and me a look that says “your father is already in a mood.”
“Mr. Kingsley is expecting you,” she says out loud.
Caleb knocks once and opens the door without waiting.
Dad stands behind his desk with a legal pad in one hand and a pair of reading glasses in the other. He doesn’t look up immediately, which is one of his favorite power moves—and also one of the reasons he was such an effective litigator for forty years.
“Two thirty-seven,” he says, still looking at the page. “I assume traffic has learned to file motions now.”
“Good to see you too, Dad,” Caleb says.
I shut the door behind us. “Sorry. Expressway.”
Dad finally looks up. His gaze lands on me first, sharp and assessing in the way that makes even fully grown adults want to check whether they’ve done their homework. Then it flicks to Caleb.
“Sit down.”
We do.
His office is immaculate. Floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Leather chairs. Framed verdict notices and commendations he pretends not to care about.
Everything arranged with military precision—including the silver pen parallel to the edge of his blotter and the legal pad centered exactly under the desk lamp.
Dad sits, folds his glasses, and gets to work.
“I spoke with family services this morning. The evaluator assigned to the temporary visitation issue is Marjorie Feld.” That gets my full attention.
Marjorie Feld isn’t the worst draw in Cook County family court, but she isn’t a gift either.
Mid-fifties, former social worker, thorough to the point of sanctimony, and fond of language like child-centered inquiry—which sounds benign until you realize it means she’s going to poke into every corner of my life and call it care.
Caleb leans back in his chair. “Feld’s fair.”
“She’s meticulous,” Dad corrects.
Which, translated from Brent Kingsley, means dangerous if we get sloppy.
Dad sets the glasses on his desk. “She’ll conduct the home visit, collateral interviews, and make a recommendation on interim contact.
Her recommendation isn’t binding, but judges listen to her.
Especially on temporary visitation.” His gaze lands on me again.
“So from this moment forward, you do nothing impulsive. No angry communication. No schedule changes without documentation. No deviations from routine you can’t explain cleanly. ”
I have the distinct sensation Caleb is trying not to look at me.
“Understood,” I say.
Dad flips a page on the legal pad. “Now. Kelsie’s counsel submitted a supplemental affidavit this morning.
They’re pushing hard on rehabilitation—ongoing therapy, stable marriage, volunteer work, a pediatric CPR certification she probably took for optics and an affidavit from her husband attesting to her ‘consistent maternal devotion.’ They currently have no children.
” A pause. The pen taps once. “So whatever the fuck that means.”
My jaw tightens.
Caleb holds out a hand. “Did they include the letter from her therapist?”
“They included a summary statement.” Dad hands the slip of paper over. “No treatment records. We’ll challenge it.” His mouth hardens. “If she wants sympathy, she can testify to her own rehabilitation under oath and be cross-examined like anyone else.”
He slides a copy of the affidavit across the desk. I don’t need to read it to know what it says in essence. Kelsie is healed. Kelsie is stable. Kelsie has discovered the performance of motherhood now that there are witnesses and legal consequences attached.
I look down anyway, because rage likes paperwork in this family.
“She has pictures,” Caleb says, scanning. “Volunteer events, church drives, one of those staged pumpkin patch things where everyone wears cream sweaters and pretends candid joy.”
Dad gives a curt nod. “And Thomas Canning’s money is paying for a very polished story.”
I stop at the next line. “She wants expanded temporary contact if initial visits go well.”
“Of course she does,” Caleb mutters.
Dad watches me over steepled fingers. “This is why Feld matters. If the evaluator recommends cautious supervised visitation only, we contain the damage. If Feld gets charmed by the rehabilitation act, we spend the next month fighting momentum.”
I set the affidavit down with deliberate care. “Michaela doesn’t want to see her.”
“She may not get that choice initially,” Dad says. “Not at eight.”
The words hit like a slammed door, even though I know they’re true. Family court loves a measured path to reunification. Loves the fantasy that biology is destiny and that enough supervised contact can stitch over years of abandonment like a ripped hem.
Dad taps his pen once against the pad. “So our job is to make the record impossible to ignore. We document Michaela’s stability in your care, the disruption caused by Kelsie’s reappearance, and the risk of forcing contact too aggressively.” He turns to Caleb. “Witness list.”
Caleb opens his folder. “Teacher. Swim coach. Marta—she can appear remotely if her mother’s surgery schedule allows,” he says.
“Our mother—also remote, since she’s on a lecture tour.
Potentially Principal Harrison, if we decide to use her.
She could also act as a community witness who can speak to day-to-day parenting outside school. ”
Dad’s pen stops.
Barely. But in this room, tiny movements carry the weight of subpoenas.
“Principal Harrison,” he repeats.
Caleb does not look at me. Coward.
Dad’s gaze shifts from the witness list to my face with the precision of a laser sight. “Why is Michaela’s principal on a witness list for day-to-day parenting?”
This is how men in my family die. Not dramatically. Just cleanly, under cross-examination, in leather chairs.
I sit back and keep my voice even. “She’s been more involved lately because of the school security issue after Kelsie’s appearance.
She’s observed Michaela’s behavior changes firsthand.
And she has direct knowledge of my involvement with school communications, pickup protocols, and the disruption caused by Kelsie’s contact attempts. ”
Dad’s eyes narrow a fraction. He has been trying cases since before I was born. He can smell an omission from across the county.
“More involved how?”
There’s a beat of silence in which I consider faking a stroke.
Caleb, the Judas, mildly adds, “There was a childcare gap.”
I turn my head and look at him. He keeps his face perfectly neutral. If I survive this meeting, I’m billing him emotionally for the next decade.
Dad sets his pen down parallel to the pad. “Explain.”
So I do. I omit the sex in her kitchen and the feelings I’m struggling to ignore, and focus on the facts—Michaela loves her. Michaela feels safe with her. Nora is the least distressing solution during an already distressing time.
He listens without interrupting, which is somehow worse than if he started in immediately. He sits there with that carved-stone expression, fingertips resting lightly on the desk, while I lay out the sequence in the driest possible terms.
Marta’s emergency. My mother unavailable. Caleb tied up. Michaela calling Nora. The temporary arrangement. Limited afternoons. Written authorization. No overnights. Structure. Boundaries. Logistics.
I make it sound like an operations memo. I don’t mention the part where my pulse is currently lodged somewhere in my throat.
When I’m done, the room is quiet enough that I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
“Are you sleeping with her?”
Fuck.
Caleb closes his eyes briefly, like a man experiencing a private religious disappointment.
I keep my face neutral by force. “That’s not relevant to whether Michaela is safe in her care.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” I say evenly. “It isn’t.”
Dad leans back in his chair. There’s no visible reaction, no dramatic shift, but the temperature in the room seems to drop five degrees.
“David,” he says, in the tone he used when I was sixteen and had once tried to argue that missing curfew by forty minutes was technically only one infraction, not two.
“I’m not asking out of prurient curiosity.
I’m asking because if there is any personal entanglement between you and a potential witness, opposing counsel will use it to question credibility, motive, judgment, and boundaries.
They won’t care what actually happened. They’ll care what they can imply. ”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?” His voice stays calm. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve inserted your daughter’s principal into the center of an active custody matter while knowing full well that the school is already one of the factual sites of dispute.”
My jaw locks.
“She’s helping my daughter,” I say. “Temporarily. In a way that is stable, safe, and documented.”
“That isn’t the only thing she’s doing, is it?”
There’s a beat.
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to. The answer lands anyway.
Dad exhales once through his nose and looks briefly at the ceiling, as if in search of patience from a higher authority. “Jesus Christ.”
Caleb shifts in his chair. “Before we all act like David has joined a cult—it was one incident, it’s over, and the childcare arrangement was put in place after the fact with clear parameters.”
Dad’s head turns slowly. “You knew.”
“I asked the question.”
“And yet you still let this proceed.”
“I agreed that Michaela should have the adult she trusts while we shore up the rest of the schedule,” Caleb says. “Which, for the record, I stand by. The legal risk is real. So is the emotional reality of an eight-year-old in the middle of this.”
Dad’s mouth flattens. “Are you planning on sleeping with her again?”
I wasn’t planning on sleeping with her the first time.
“No.”
He looks at me for a long moment. When he seems satisfied, he exhales slowly. “OK, then. Let’s get ahead of this.”