Chapter 21
Twenty-one
Addie
The next day, I clean even though nothing needs cleaning.
The counters are already clear. The dishes are done.
My studio space is the way I like it—tools lined up, watercolor tubes organized by shade, yesterday’s work dry and waiting.
Still, I wipe things down, move objects a few inches, straighten what’s already straight.
It helps me think.
Luc asking if I see him in my future yesterday was a shock.
He’s asking about more than just the baby, and I can’t seem to find my way to clarity there.
If I don’t say yes, or even if I just opt to keep my place and my space, what if he closes that door?
Luc isn’t the kind of man to be kept in limbo forever.
And there will always be someone else who won’t hesitate.
Someone who’ll move in without overthinking it.
The weight of this decision threatens to pull me under.
Not because I can’t live without him. I’m sure I can.
I was completely ready to. But the idea of him choosing someone who isn’t afraid the way I am is physically painful.
Why can’t I approach this without all my baggage?
The lunch with my sisters yesterday plays back in pieces, not in any order that makes sense. Sera’s hand on my arm. Josie’s voice when she told me I didn’t need Evie. Luc sitting beside me, calm and steady.
Yesterday, I told Evie no. Again.
That should feel like a win. But it doesn’t. It feels like I’ve put something down I’ll have to pick up again later.
I make tea and forget about it, the kettle clicking off while I stand at the window, watching someone walk their dog across the street.
After a minute, I sit on the couch and rest a hand on my stomach.
I think I’m fine. I’ve built this life carefully, and yes, the baby was a surprise, but I’m not scrambling the way Evie seems to think. There’s work coming in, enough money to breathe, and I’ve found my way through worse than this before.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I ignore it.
That’s another habit I’ve built. Silence has always been my buffer.
I turn the kettle back on and finish making the tea this time, standing at the counter, letting it steep.
My phone buzzes again.
Still, I leave it face down on the counter, like it can’t bother me if I don’t look at it. I rinse my mug, dry it, and set it in the cupboard even though it’s the only one I’ve used all day.
When I finally pick the phone up, I expect a text from Sera or Josie. Maybe Luc checking in. Instead, I have a voicemail and an email.
The subject line is neutral enough to slip past my guard. My name. A reference number. Nothing urgent, nothing alarming. Just official.
But when I open, it’s from the Crown.
Dear Ms. Addison Dempsey,
Re: Follow-Up Inquiry
The Crown Counsel’s Office is requesting a brief follow-up meeting to clarify certain information relating to Evelyn Dempsey in connection with an ongoing investigation.
This request is routine in nature. You are not under suspicion, and this correspondence should not be interpreted as an indication of wrongdoing on your part.
We are simply seeking clarification on a few specific points that have arisen during the course of our review.
You may bring legal representation, but it isn’t necessary.
We are aware of your pregnancy and will take this into consideration when scheduling any further interviews. Your cooperation to date has been appreciated, and we thank you in advance for your continued assistance.
Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to arrange a suitable time for this brief discussion.
Sincerely,
Margret Milton
Crown Counsel
Crown Prosecutor’s Office
They mentioned my pregnancy.
I read the sentence twice, and then a third time, like maybe I’ve misunderstood. Like maybe I imagined it being there at all.
How do they know this? I didn’t tell them.
I sit down slowly, still holding my phone. The apartment feels very quiet, almost heavy around me. The words aren’t threatening. There’s nothing harsh in them. Nothing to argue with or push back against.
Just the realization that something private has already moved beyond me.
I open my computer and write a reply. I keep it polite and calm. I thank them for contacting me. I tell them I’m willing to answer questions. I ask what they need and when they want to talk.
Before I send it, I pause.
I don’t like that they seem to know so much about me. And I’m not sure I want to just go along with it.
I delete the draft.
The phone buzzes a third time, with a text from an unknown number. My stomach tightens before I even open it.
Unknown: This is Margaret Milton from the Crown Prosecutor’s office. I sent you an email earlier today and wanted to make sure it reached you.
I set the phone down and brace my hands against the counter, letting the cool, solid surface steady me.
I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t know anything about what’s going on with my grandmother.
Until I got pregnant, she’d hardly acknowledged me in the last ten years.
I don’t owe anyone more than the truth, and I don’t owe it on anyone else’s timeline.
How does anyone know I’m pregnant? We’ve only told my family. The sense of being observed lingers, like a hand hovering just behind my shoulder.
I pick the phone up again and type a short reply.
Me: I’ve received the email. I’ll review it and get back to you soon.
I don’t promise anything beyond that.
But I also realize it doesn’t particularly matter. Whatever Evie’s drama has turned into is already moving, and it isn’t waiting for me to catch up.
I’m halfway through answering an email from a gallery in Vancouver when my phone rings.
I almost don’t answer it. I usually let things go to voicemail. But something makes my heart beat faster when I see this number. Local. Not saved in my contacts.
I answer. “Hello?”
“Addison.” Evie’s voice is calm, pleasant, and conversational. “I was hoping you’d pick up.”
I close my eyes for a second. She tricked me and is calling from a new number. Of course, she is.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
“I heard from your cousin that the Crown Prosecutor’s office has reached out to you,” she says.
My grip tightens on the phone. “I just got that minutes ago. I haven’t told anyone.”
“I know,” she says. “But these things have a way of circulating. People worry.”
“I don’t think they have anything to be worried about where I’m concerned,” I tell her.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Evie replies, smooth as ever. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t feeling overwhelmed. Investigations can be stressful, especially given your condition. If you’d like my attorney to attend any questioning, he’s yours to use.”
Ah. “I’m fine,” I assure her.
“I don’t doubt that,” she says. “But stress isn’t always about capability. Sometimes, it’s about exposure. You’re being asked questions. People are forming impressions. That matters when there’s a baby involved.”
My stomach twists. “This has nothing to do with the baby.”
There’s a pause on the line, not surprise so much as calculation. “Of course, it does,” she says. “Everything does, once you’re a mother.”
I lean against the counter, the edge biting into my hip. “You don’t get to use that.”
“I’m not using anything,” Evie says. “I’m pointing out reality. You’ve chosen to stay independent, and I respect that. Truly. But independence doesn’t always look reassuring from the outside.”
There it is again. She’s focused on how this looks to others. “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I say, already regretting it.
“No,” she agrees. “You didn’t. I’m offering perspective. If the Crown asks about where you live, who’s supporting you, or what kind of environment the baby will be raised in, it helps to have clear answers ready.”
My heart beats a little faster, not panic, just awareness. “Why would they ask me any of that?”
“It’s standard,” Evie says breezily. “And when they do, I want you to be prepared.”
Prepared, in Evie’s world, always means positioned.
“I’m not moving,” I tell her yet again. “And I’m not discussing this with you.”
“I’m not asking you to decide anything today,” she says quickly. “I just don’t want you to feel blindsided. Silence can be misread, Addison. Especially when people are already talking.”
“I have to go.”
“Of course,” Evie replies. “Just remember, I’m here. I always have been—”
I disconnect.
I set the phone down and pace from the kitchen to the studio and back again, pretending I’m releasing my tension when I’m really checking the locks, the windows, and the door. Evie’s concern doesn’t feel like protection. It feels like I’m being watched. Stalked, even.
I stop at the mirror in the hallway. I look tired, a little drawn around the eyes, but not fragile or unraveling. Not someone who needs to be managed.
I rest my hands on my stomach and breathe, slow and deliberate, reminding myself that this is still my body and my life. But the feeling doesn’t go away.
Evie has never threatened me, and the Crown has never accused me. There’s no indication that they want to now. Still, it feels like things are moving beyond my reach. Decisions are taking shape somewhere I’m not present.
I sit on the edge of the couch and try to think this through logically.
Maybe Evie’s just using everything she has to try to scare me, even her own legal troubles.
Luc. What would he think about this? Could I ask him?
But in the same breath, I decide I should make sure I understand what’s happening before I involve him.
I don’t want to give anyone leverage. Otherwise, I’ll wake up one day and realize my life has changed without me having any say.
My mind swirls. I don’t want to go along with things without ever choosing any of it.
But keeping my head down doesn’t protect me anymore.
It just makes it easier for other people to shape things around me.
Sooner or later, I’ll have to decide what I want, and how I want to be seen.
I decide to make some lunch, just to keep myself occupied.
The process is familiar, so I don’t have to think. I chop, stir, and clean as I go. My hands know what to do, and my mind doesn’t stop.
Eventually, I sit at the small table by the window and move food around on my plate. Outside, people walk along the sidewalk. Everything looks normal. I feel slightly out of step with it.
At the root, I want to keep this latest development to myself.
But I know that isn’t really protection anymore.
It’s avoidance. It just keeps me frozen.
Evie isn’t waiting for an invitation. And Luc has made it clear he doesn’t want to—I just haven’t given him much choice.
And now, the Crown isn’t waiting for me to feel ready either.
Things are moving, whether I take an active role or not.
I clear my plate and rinse it, staring out the window. My reflection looks steady. It usually does. I’ve always been good at holding it together.
I dry my hands and find my phone. I scroll until I find Luc’s name, thumb hovering for a second before I tap it.
I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say yet. I just know I don’t want things happening around me like I’m not part of them. I want a voice in this, and that means talking. I’m going to start with someone who’s done everything he can to earn my trust.
The phone rings once. Twice.
Whatever happens next, I’m done letting silence speak for me.
Luc answers on the third ring.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply.
“You okay?” he asks.
I lean against the counter and let my head fall to the side, against the wall. “I am. I think. But things are getting louder.”
“Okay…” he says.
“The Crown reached out,” I continue. “They want to interview me again, and they mentioned that I was pregnant. Then Evie called, and she knew the Crown had been in touch. It’s clear she’s trying to manipulate and control, like usual.
She wants me to be as worried about how all this looks as she is.
She wants me to have her answers ready for them. She even offered her lawyer.”
“You don’t need a lawyer to meet with the Crown,” Luc says immediately.
“I know,” I say. “And anyway, all of this is ridiculous. I have almost no knowledge of what she did.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “All of this is…a huge hassle.”
“Thanks for letting me share it with you,” I tell him.
“I think I needed to talk it through. I don’t want Evie to convince me that staying quiet or giving her version of the facts will keep me safe from the Crown.
Or that I need to be safe from them. I have no reason to fear them, and there’s no reason not to talk and get this over with. ”
There’s a pause. “I think that sounds right.” Then he asks, “Do you want me to come over? It’s my day off, and I’ve done all the things I needed to do at my uncle’s.”
I consider it. The instinct to say yes is there, immediate and tempting. But this isn’t about being rescued. It’s about being heard.
“Not right now,” I tell him. “But you can come over for dinner later. I just wanted you to know what’s happening. I want to stop handling things alone.”
“Okay,” he says. “Thanks. I’m happy to help you figure it out together.”
His words seem genuine, and I don’t flinch. I think that’s progress.