Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Janie
The clock on the wall ticks louder with every second I sit here. Ten minutes late for the outreach committee meeting. Warren will already be there, which makes walking into the hellscape of our personal-slash-professional mess that much harder. I always try to be first.
I haven’t even printed my notes. Fuck.
I shuffle papers into some semblance of order, trying to organize my thoughts at the same time. Since Warren discovered Beckett is his son, every interaction has been a minefield. We're professional in public, cold in private.
The memory of his warmth when he picked up and dropped off Beckett for the camping trip twists something inside me.
My phone vibrates, jarring me from my thoughts. The HR extension flashes on the screen. I don't have time to answer, but I know I have to.
"Janie Harrelson."
"Ms. Harrelson, it's Darcy from HR." Her voice wavers, pitched higher than normal.
"Good afternoon, Darcy. Everything okay?"
"I'm so sorry to bother you, but we have a situation. Melissa Torres. She's one of the medical techs in radiology. She's supposed to be working today, but she's in my office right now having a complete breakdown with her sick three-year-old. I don't know who to call."
I press my fingers against my temple. "What happened?"
"She just got served an eviction notice this morning.
She's a single mom, two kids. The landlord is raising the rent by thirty percent with no notice.
She can't—" Darcy lowers her voice. "She can't stop crying.
I know this is outside of your wheelhouse, but I heard you talking to Caleb about a single-parent initiative as part of the outreach. Do we have anything we can offer her?"
My stomach drops. The words "single mom" hit like a physical blow. I can literally identify with her anxiety, wondering how the hell she is going to juggle it all while shielding and protecting her child.
"I see you have a meeting now, but is there anything—"
"I'll be right there."
I hang up, grabbing my blazer off the chair. I stop by Rue's desk on the way to the elevator.
"Will you please drop in on the committee meeting room and tell them to start without me? I've got to take care of something and will be in shortly. They have the agenda, so I can catch up once I'm done."
My heels click against the tile as I hurry down the corridor.
My mind races. Four years ago, that could have been me.
Every single day I was keenly aware that I was one bad break from disaster, juggling Beckett and work and childcare and bills with no safety net.
If not for Gemma and my mom those first few months, I don't know how I could have done it.
Not everyone has help or support. Hell, even a cheerleader.
I round the corner, my pulse quickening. This isn't just about one employee. It's about the systems that fail women like us, that pretend we can handle everything alone until we break. And then criticizing us when we fail.
Pushing open the HR office door, I catch my first glimpse of Melissa Torres. She sits hunched in the vinyl visitor's chair, shoulders curved inward like a question mark.
Her dark hair falls across her face as she rocks a stroller back and forth with one hand while clutching a stack of crumpled papers in the other. A toddler inside the stroller whimpers. Tiny red sneakers kick against the fabric.
"Ms. Harrelson," Darcy steps forward from behind her desk, relief washing over her features. "Thank you for coming down—"
"Of course. Let me talk to her."
I move past Darcy toward Melissa, whose mascara tracks down her cheeks in thin black rivers. The fluorescent light whirrs overhead, casting harsh shadows across her exhausted face.
"I'm so sorry," Melissa whispers, voice cracking.
"I found this taped to my door when I was leaving for work.
" Her hands tremble as she waves the papers. "I didn’t even have time to read it. I just grabbed Juan and ran because I was already late. But daycare wouldn’t take him with the fever, so Radiology had to cover my shift. "
"Slow down. Tell me what we're dealing with here."
"Three hundred more a month. Just like that. No warning." Her breathing hitches. "I already missed two shifts this month when Juan had strep, and my sister couldn’t watch him, and now this—"
The toddler’s whimpering grows louder, small fists batting at the stroller restraints.
My throat tightens as I crouch down to Melissa's eye level, putting one hand on her knee and the other on the stroller. I ignore the pinch of my pencil skirt. "May I?" I gesture to the papers.
She hands them over, fingers trembling. I scan quickly. The legalese is dense, but certain clauses stand out immediately. This isn't just an eviction notice; it's predatory. Section 8 housing with illegal accelerated increases, retaliatory timing after maintenance complaints.
"Mommy?" The little boy's face scrunches, his lower lip trembling. I can tell he's sick with his watery eyes and red nose. He doesn't need to be in here. He needs to go home, in bed.
Something sharp twists in my chest. Four years ago, that was me: terrified, alone, pretending I wasn't completely unraveling while my infant, Beckett, fussed in his stroller when I had to be at work, and I had a paper due for school.
Different city, same desperate arithmetic of bills and childcare and impossible choices.
I reach over and touch Melissa's wrist, keeping my voice calm and steady. "You're not alone. We're going to figure this out."
Her shoulders relax a fraction, her breathing steadying.
I straighten up, making a snap decision. I pull my phone from my pocket, already scrolling through my contacts. I pull up Warren's number and start typing out a text before I can second-guess myself. He's here, just upstairs in the meeting I should be in. Maybe he can help.
Darcy hovers at my shoulder while Melissa digs through her diaper bag for a tissue to wipe Juan's nose. My pulse hammers as I type.
I need your help.
A beat. No reply. My fingers fly again.
One of our techs just got served an eviction notice. She’s here in HR with a toddler in a stroller and worried she can't go home for fear of what the landlord might do.
Lease terms look predatory. Maybe illegal.
The dots appear, vanish, reappear. I can almost see him upstairs, jaw tight, weighing whether my problem is worth his time.
Finally—
Text me the paperwork.
Relief floods my chest so fast my knees nearly buckle.
I snap photos of each document and fire them off, then crouch beside Juan's stroller. The little boy’s face is tear-streaked, his brown, watery eyes wide and uncertain.
Give me fifteen minutes and I'll come down.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, gently brushing his hand. “You want a snack? They have popsicles on the pediatric floor,” I look up at Melissa as I say this, for permission to give him one. She nods.
“Do you like cherry or grape?”
The first glimmer of a smile flickers. “Red.”
“Red it is. I’ll be right back. And when I get back, we’re going to figure something out for you today.”
Melissa wipes her eyes. “Thank you.”
Her humble gratitude hooks into my chest and doesn’t let go.
“Ma’am, who did you text? Is someone really going to help me?”
“The best family law attorney in Palm Beach.” My throat knots, but my voice stays steady. “He specializes in cases exactly like yours.”
I sprint upstairs, snag three cherry popsicles, and hurry back down before they melt. I open one for Juan, and his sticky hand reaches for it immediately. Popsicle, hydration, distraction. Three wins in one.
The door swings open without warning.
Warren strides in, briefcase in hand, his tall frame filling the doorway. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in Melissa, the child, the scattered papers. When his eyes meet mine, something flickers. Not warmth, but purpose.
I’ll take it.
He turns to her. “I’m Warren Carter,” he says, voice steady, professional. “Why don’t you walk me through what’s going on? Let’s see what we can do.”
He settles into the chair across from Melissa, posture relaxed but deliberate. The sharp lines of his suit give him an edge that makes her shrink back, clutching the papers tighter to her chest.
“Mr. Carter handles housing law and family advocacy,” I explain gently, touching Melissa’s arm. “He’s here to help.”
Warren’s eyes flick to mine. It's quick and unreadable, but it's notable. Then, he spreads the documents across the desk with precise, methodical movements. His fingers glide over the pages like he’s arranging puzzle pieces only he can see.
“Can you tell me exactly when you received this notice?” His tone softens just enough, the voice I’ve heard him use with frightened witnesses.
Melissa’s shoulders ease a fraction. “This morning. It was taped to my door when I was leaving for work.”
“And you’ve filed complaints about maintenance?” I ask, recalling the notes I skimmed.
“Three times. The heat went out in January, then black mold in the bathroom, and last month the lock on the back door broke.” Her leg bounces, making the stroller rock. Juan scribbles quietly with a blue crayon that Darcy handed him.
Warren makes notes, so she continues. “It took four weeks to fix the heat, and they still haven’t touched the mold or the lock. I had to shove a dresser in front of the back door.”
Warren nods, his pen moving frantically on his notepad while checking the lease. “That’s textbook retaliation. And this clause—” he taps paragraph six, “—violates tenant protection laws.”
I lean closer, scanning the section he indicates. Our shoulders nearly touch, and the clean scent of his aftershave hits me. The same one from that night. My chest tightens.
“What about emergency housing assistance?” I glance at Darcy. “Can we fast-track her application?”
The next forty-five minutes move in rhythm. Warren cuts through the legal jargon, and I translate it for Melissa. He drafts, I fetch water. When her voice cracks, I steady her. When Juan fusses, I fold a sticky note into a crane and make him laugh.
Our hands brush as we pass papers back and forth. His fingers linger a beat too long before pulling away. I don’t look up. I can’t.
“So we file this counter-notice today,” Warren explains, sliding the completed forms toward Melissa. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll contact the housing authority. You won’t have to leave your apartment.”
Tears spill again, but this time with relief. “I don’t know how to thank you both.”
“You don’t have to.” Warren’s tone softens. “Take your boy home. Nurse him back to health. Let me handle the rest. You’re not getting kicked out. Take my card and touch base with my office sometime tomorrow.”
Melissa nods quickly, clutching the folder of next steps like it’s a lifeline. “Thank you,” she whispers, gathering Juan’s stroller.
When she leaves, Warren’s card tucked in her pocket and her shoulders a little straighter, the door shuts with a muted click. The fluorescent light hums louder in the sudden quiet. Darcy bends her head to her keyboard just outside the doorway, pretending to type.
Across the table, the scattered papers mark the problem we tackled together and found a solution for. At least in the short term. Melissa walked out with options she didn’t have an hour ago. That matters.
I gather the leftover documents, stacking them neatly, a small surge of purpose settling in my chest. We did that together. He with the law, me with the people. For a tiny moment, it's not impossible to think about how well we worked together to find a solution for her.
But just as quickly as we fell into our roles to help her, it ends. Warren snaps his briefcase shut. No more warm words, just a clipped nod toward the door.
The hallway swallows us up, our footsteps echoing against polished tile. Evening light filters through the glass ahead, stretching long shadows across the floor. He walks beside me, steady stride, close enough that our arms might brush if either of us shifted.
Silence stretches tightly between us. If it were anyone else, I’d high-five them for how we handled Melissa. Instead, I keep it to myself, a fist pump tucked against my ribs.
“Thank you,” I say at last, my voice barely above a whisper. “For helping her today.”
Warren’s jaw flexes, his gaze locked forward. “I’m glad you called me. She’s exactly the kind of person I want to help. You can pull me in for something like this anytime.”
“You’re a good man, Warren.” The words scrape my throat on the way out. I mean them, but after saying them, they almost seem trite.
He slows, his muscles working in his jaw. For a moment, I think he might actually look at me.
“I’ll have my assistant send over the emergency paperwork,” he says finally, clipped again, keeping his gaze forward. “I’ll have her update you when I know more.”
I reach for the case file under his arm. “I should probably take that for HR. I can have Darcy send you whatever you need.”
Our hands collide in the narrow space between us. The brush of skin jolts me, heat racing up my arm. Warren freezes, breath catching audibly.
Then he looks at me. Really looks. And for the first time in weeks, the mask slips. Hurt. Anger. And something else there. Whatever it is, it's sharp enough to make my heart stutter.
One heartbeat. Two. The air between us cracks open.
Then his eyes shutter, and the walls slam back in place. He thrusts the folder into my hands like it burns him and strides for the exit. His shoulders stay rigid under his tailored suit.
The glass doors swing closed behind him, leaving me clutching the file to my chest, my pulse hammering in the empty hall.
For a heartbeat I thought I saw him. And then he was gone.