Chapter 28 David
David
“What are you doing?” Nora says as she slides into the passenger seat of my Audi.
“Monitoring a transfer I have no legal authority to interrupt,” I say.
Nora shuts the door with more force than necessary and stares at me. Her cheeks are flushed from the walk across the street, her eyes bright.
“That’s an insane sentence.”
“I’m aware.”
I keep my hands on the steering wheel because if I don’t, I’ll either start the car and follow the SUV like a criminal or put my head through the driver’s-side window. Neither feels especially productive.
Across from us, the space at the curb is empty now. No black SUV. No glimpse of Michaela’s navy cardigan through tinted glass. Just school traffic moving around the absence like nothing happened.
I hate that the world keeps doing that. Continuing.
Nora twists in her seat to look back at the school, then forward again. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“Forty-three minutes.”
Her mouth tightens. “David.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” She turns fully toward me. “Did you come here planning to follow them like a deeply stressed suburban vigilante?”
“No.”
She glances at the console, the display showing the route to the Canning residence. The blue line stretches across the screen like an accusation. “David.”
“I wasn’t going to follow them.”
“That’s a map. To their house. With turn-by-turn directions.”
“Those loaded automatically.”
She turns and looks at me with that sexy schoolteacher eyebrow raise she does, and I fold immediately.
“Fine. I was considering it.”
“That’s not a joke.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
She exhales through her nose. The sound is half exasperation, half concern. “You can’t follow them.”
“I know.”
“You can’t park outside their house.”
“I know.”
“You can’t hire someone to park outside their house.”
I glance at her. “That one was still under review.”
“David.”
“I’m kidding,” I say, then because she knows me too well, I add, “Mostly.”
“Then release your death grip on the wheel.”
With a resigned sigh, I loosen my grip. One finger at a time. It takes conscious effort, which is embarrassing.
“She looked small,” I say.
Nora’s expression shifts.
“She looked brave,” she says.
“She shouldn’t have to look brave. She’s a child.”
“You’re right. She shouldn’t.”
The school entrance is quiet now—just the custodian dragging a recycling bin around the side of the building, oblivious to the fact that a grown man has been sitting in his car for almost an hour having a private crisis.
“She asked me to lie for her,” Nora says quietly.
I turn to look at her. “What?”
“In the office. Before the handoff. She asked me to tell Thomas she had a stomach issue so she could go home. She called it ‘a temporary deception in service of emotional safety.’”
Despite everything, hearing that helps. Because it’s so profoundly Michaela.
“What did you say?”
“I said no. And it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.” She pauses. “She brought her seal plushie. And a drawing of Archie as an emergency visual aid.”
“An emergency visual aid?”
“In case she becomes distressed. So she can look at it and remember there are still trustworthy mammals in the world.”
I close my eyes. Press my thumbs into my eye sockets. Breathe.
Michaela made a contingency plan for her own emotional safety using a drawing of a golden retriever. She’s better at crisis management than most of the attorneys I know.
I taught her this. The preparing. The contingency planning. The turning of fear into procedure so you don’t have to feel it raw.
I’m so proud of her it makes me want to throw up.
“She also asked what to do if Kelsie asks her to call her Mom,” Nora says.
I open my eyes. “She’s been worried about that a lot. What did you tell her?”
“That she doesn’t owe anyone a word that doesn’t belong to them.”
“That’s—” My voice doesn’t cooperate on the first try. “That’s good. That’s exactly right.”
“It’s what I believe.”
“Me too.” I look at her. She’s sitting in my passenger seat in her work blazer, her hair starting to come loose from the twist, her eyes shining bright with both emotion and stress.
I reach over and cover her hand with mine.
“Thanks for talking me down.”
She gives me a small smile as she bounces a shoulder. “All in a day’s work.”
“I should probably get back to mine,” I say. “Since stalking my ex’s home seems an inappropriate alternative.”
“Why don’t you meet me at my place in twenty minutes?” she says. “We can anxiously wait out this visit together.”
I look at her for a second too long.
There are multiple reasons I should say no. Work. Optics. Rules. The fact that if I spend the next few hours in Nora’s house, the odds of me behaving like a disciplined adult decrease in direct proportion to the amount of time I have to look at her mouth.
There’s also the more immediate issue that the alternative is going back to the office and pretending I can draft anything more sophisticated than please let this afternoon end without my daughter being hurt.
“Twenty minutes?” I repeat.
“You can pick up coffee on the way if you need an activity.” She squeezes my hand once, then reaches for the door handle. “Twenty minutes. And David?”
“Yeah?”
“Do not do anything creative between now and then.”
“I’m offended by the implication.”
“You shouldn’t be. It’s extremely accurate.”
She gets out before I can argue, which is tactically sound on her part. I watch her cross back toward the school entrance, shoulders squared, stride brisk with purpose. Principal Harrison again. Composed. Competent. Entirely too good at moving between roles that would flatten most people.
I sit there for another ten seconds with both hands on the wheel and the route to the Canning house still glowing on my dashboard like a bad idea in neon.
Then I delete it.
It feels symbolic in a way I mistrust, but I do it anyway.
By the time I make it to Nora’s neighborhood, I’ve checked my phone six times despite knowing perfectly well there’s no reason Kelsie would be texting me interim progress reports from my daughter’s court-ordered visit with her.
Caleb has sent two messages—one asking how I’m holding up, the other reminding me that committing a felony will complicate the review hearing. I don’t respond to either.
Nora opens the door before I knock.
She’s shed the blazer. Her hair is fully loose now, falling around her shoulders in a way that’s doing nothing constructive for my concentration.
She’s changed into jeans and a cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her forearms, and the domestic softness of the image hits me somewhere low and unguarded.
“Come in,” she says. “And if you tell me you’re fine, I’m shutting the door in your face.”
Her house smells like coffee and comfort.
Archie rushes me with the enthusiasm of a dog who’s been alone for several hours and considers this an unforgivable lapse in his social calendar.
But instead of excitedly trying to entice me with his rope toy, he just presses his enormous golden head into my thigh like he’s offering condolences.
“He knows,” Nora says, hanging her coat on the first hook. “She’s normally here Wednesdays.”
“We’re all feeling it today, buddy,” I say, kneeling down to scratch him behind his ears.
When I get up, I take off my jacket and hang it on the third hook. It’s where Michaela’s jacket usually goes, but she isn’t here because Michaela’s at the Canning residence performing stability for a woman who doesn’t deserve the effort.
Three hours and twenty-two minutes until pickup.
Nora sees me looking at the hook. She doesn’t say anything. She just comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist.
Her embrace grounds me, warm and steady against my back, and before I can second-guess the raw need surging through my veins, I turn in her arms, capturing her mouth in a kiss that ignites everything I’ve been holding back.
It’s not gentle—it’s desperate, fueled by the day’s frustration and the unspoken ache we’ve both carried since the courtroom.
Nora gasps against my lips, her fingers digging into my shirt as she presses closer, and I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist while I pin her against the wall, our bodies aligning with a friction that makes us both groan.
We fumble with clothes in a haze of urgency—her sweater yanked over her head, my shirt buttons popping free as she tugs them open, our mouths never fully parting.
“Bedroom,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
The word comes out wrecked.
She nods once, and I carry her down the hallway like I’ve been doing it in my head for weeks. Archie prances after us for three hopeful strides before Nora points at the living room without breaking our kiss.
“Out,” she says against my mouth.
He huffs in betrayal and retreats.