38. Pope
THIRTY-EIGHT
Pope
The package has been sitting on the edge of my desk since Margaret dropped it off this morning. “Something for you, Mr. Carrigan” she’d said before heading upstairs to get Lennon ready for school.
I haven't thought much of it since then. I've been at the office all day juggling conference calls, analyzing numbers, and meeting with department chiefs. Today we went through another round of board projections. Things are finally back on track, and things are looking up.
Now the house is silent. Lennon is asleep upstairs, and the only sound is the low tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. I reach for my letter opener, slit the tape in one clean line, and peel back the paper.
Inside is a small box, carefully wrapped. The precision of it makes something tighten in my chest. Like a gift. A folded notebook paper falls to the counter.
I lift the lid.
Lennon's azabache necklace.
Picking it up, the weight of the chain hangs, the black stone gleaming against the light. My throat locks.
I've spent countless hours tearing this house apart, searching couch cushions, retracing steps at the beach, trying to convince Lennon it would turn up. I told him not to worry, that it was just misplaced.
But it wasn’t just misplaced. After a while, I had to accept it and tell him that he was right. I conceded that he must have lost it in the ocean one day while swimming.
I tried to convince him that it meant his mother was keeping the ocean safe for him, that she was as big as the ocean and would always be close to protect him, no matter where he went.
He didn't buy it. And I didn't blame him.
Now it’s here, in my hand. Where has it been? Chills run up my spine as my hair stands on end.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper, the words barely audible even to myself.
I pick up the folded piece of paper, the other still holding the pendant.
I found this while unpacking. It was Lennon's mom's, and something he treasures. I'm sorry I didn't realize I had it and didn't return it sooner. Please make sure he gets it. -S
My throat closes. Just an initial. No name, no return address on the package.
But I know her handwriting. I'd seen it on Lennon's progress notes, on grocery lists stuck to the refrigerator, on little drawings she'd make for him during lessons.
How did I miss that on the outside of the package? I pick up the torn brown paper that had wrapped the box and run my finger over my name she wrote in block letters.
Looking above it, I see her return address. Augusta, Georgia. She must have moved back to her hometown.
A lump forms in my throat, and I try to swallow the sadness down.
I squeeze the necklace in my palm, gold links coiling like liquid metal. The weight of it is nothing compared to the heaviness spreading through my chest.
"Goddammit, Sloane," I mutter, pressing my thumb against the azabache charm.
The note trembles in my hand. I press it flat against the desk, trying to steady myself.
She knew exactly what this meant to him. Even after everything, after the photos, after losing her job, after I'd failed to protect her, she still cared enough to make sure Lennon got this back.
The ache I've been burying for months tears through me with fresh intensity. It’s not just a package. It’s her. Reaching across the distance, reminding me what I lost.
Wood panels absorb our whispers as Warren shuffles papers beside me. My suit is uncharacteristically tight across my shoulders, tailored perfectly but suddenly too confining.
I glance back at Dana Black sitting behind us, her expression neutral as she reviews her notes. Beside her, Lennon's small frame perches on the edge of the bench, his legs nowhere near touching the floor.
His tiny fingers work the azabache charm that’s back in its rightful place, hanging from his neck. He rubs the smooth black stone between thumb and forefinger. He hasn't taken it off since Sloane sent it back about a month ago.
Something catches in my chest watching him clutch it like a lifeline.
The clerk's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Case number 22-CV-4738, In the matter of minor child Lennon Lopez, petition for adoption."
My name follows, formal and strange in this context. Not businessman, or investor. Just the man who wants to be this boy's father.
Judge Collins peers down from the bench, his silver hair catching the fluorescent light. His hazel eyes move deliberately between the paperwork and my face.
"Mr. Carrigan, you have served as temporary guardian for several months now. The court recognizes you have provided stability, routine, and safety for the minor child. Today is to determine whether you intend to pursue permanency."
Warren rises smoothly beside me, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced ease.
"Your Honor, my client does intend to file a formal petition for adoption."
The scratch of the judge's pen fills the pause. He looks directly at me.
"Mr. Carrigan, can you confirm this is your intention?"
I stand, placing my palms flat against the cool surface of the table to ground myself. A hundred boardrooms, a thousand negotiations, and I've never felt my heart hammer like this.
"Yes, Your Honor. I want to adopt Lennon. I have discussed it with Camila Reyes, and we both agree this is in the best interest of Lennon."
The words hang in the air between us, simple and immense.
Judge Collins nods, making another note.
"The next six months will involve a full home study and financial review, conducted by Ms. Black, who has already served as Guardian ad Litem.
Her report will be filed with the court before the final adoption hearing.
Assuming her recommendation is favorable, and all obligations are met, this court will enter a final decree of adoption. "
Dana inclines her head when the judge acknowledges her. "I'll arrange the schedule for home visits and continue my oversight, Your Honor."
"The court also acknowledges the trust fund you established to safeguard Lennon's inheritance. That transparency is noted and appreciated."
I nod once, grateful for Warren's guidance on that front.
The judge leans forward, elbows on his desk. "Mr. Carrigan, you've been clear in prior proceedings that your residence in Florida is tied to a temporary professional project. Do you intend to continue living here if the adoption is finalized?"
My jaw tightens. This isn't a question I can finesse or redirect.
"No, Your Honor. My work will eventually require me to return to Denver. I've already spoken with Lennon about this."
The judge considers this, his expression giving nothing away. "If the adoption is granted, you will be free to relocate. What matters is whether the child is secure in your care."
His attention shifts to the bench behind me. "Lennon, do you understand that? That if you are adopted, you may live with Mr. Carrigan somewhere else?"
I resist the urge to turn around. My pulse thunders in my ears.
A small voice answers, clear despite its softness. "I want to stay with him."
The words hit me like a physical force. Something cracks open inside my chest, raw and vulnerable.
I sink back into my chair, turning to see Lennon while trying to maintain composure. My throat works against the emotion I refuse to show.
Not here. Not now.
The judge makes a notation, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "The court acknowledges the minor child's statement." He strikes his gavel once. "This session is adjourned. All parties are thanked for their candor today."
Warren leans toward me as we gather our documents. "The paperwork will be substantial. Dana will schedule those home visits within the next few weeks."
I nod, but my focus has already shifted behind me, where Lennon still sits, small fingers wrapped around Maria's necklace like it's the only constant in his shifting world.
My knuckles are white around the steering wheel as Val's voice fills the SUV. "She cared enough to send the necklace back. That means something. Go find her, thank her. Ask her to coffee. What's the worst that can happen?"
I stare through the windshield at the modest brick apartment complex. The paint flakes around the stairwells like dying petals, and cars are cramped in the lot at odd angles. It's barely impressive enough to call basic. So far from the oceanfront luxury where I met her. Where I lost her.
"I don't even know what I'll say if she opens the door. Thank you? Sorry? Both?" My voice comes out tight, strained.
"Pope, for heaven's sake. You saved her address from the package, flew to Georgia to see her, rented a car, and now you're sitting out front like a teenager afraid to ask someone to prom. You crush people for a living. Don't be scared of a petite, curvy woman."
"I'll call you back. I'll let you know how it goes later." I hang up before she can respond, pocketing the phone.
Taking a deep breath, I push open the car door. The damp Georgia January afternoon hits me immediately.
With each step up the narrow stairs, I rehearse my opening.
Sloane, I just wanted to thank you in person...
Lennon hasn't let go of that necklace since it arrived...
I had no right to let you take the fall...
Nothing sounds right. I need to find a way to sincerely apologize for everything that has happened, for her life imploding because of me, for not keeping her abreast of everything so she wasn’t blindsided.
I knock, my heart hammering against my ribs, palms damp.
The door swings open, but it's not her. My stomach drops. A man in joggers with a TV remote in hand. For a split second, my gut twists. Is it her boyfriend? Already?
Of course she has moved on, and now her boyfriend is going to want to know why this asshole from her past is showing up unannounced. This was a terrible idea. Too late now. I’ve knocked. I’m here.
"Does Sloane Brennan live here?" I manage to keep my voice steady.
He shakes his head. "She used to. She moved a few weeks ago."
Weeks. I missed her by a few weeks.
The man notices my expression and holds up a finger. "Hang on." He disappears inside, returning with a small stack of mail. "You know her? You can take this. I keep meaning to drop it with the landlord."
I take the bundle, barely finding my voice. "Thank you."
The door closes with a click. Disappointment because it isn’t her. Relief because he’s not her boyfriend.
I stare down at the envelopes. It looks like credit card offers, utility bills, her name printed in block letters. Tangible proof she lived here. Proof she’s gone.
I walk back toward the rental car, my legs strangely disconnected from my body. The damp Georgia air clings to my skin, heavy with the promise of rain. Gray clouds hang low enough to touch.
Sliding into the driver's seat, I fan the small stack of mail across my lap. Her name stares back at me in bold black lettering. SLOANE brENNAN.
Worthless paper that's somehow the most precious thing I've touched in months.
I flip through the envelopes again, my fingers tracing the edges. There has to be something here, some clue. An address change form. A forwarding location. Anything.
Nothing.
A hollow thud echoes in my chest, like someone's removed something vital and left an empty space.
Before I flew here, I'd convinced myself I was doing the right thing, paying my respects, delivering a simple thank you, and walking away. That's what a decent man would do. Let her rebuild her life without me complicating it further.
But standing at that door, hearing those words made something inside me snap. The restraint I'd practiced for months shattered into a thousand pieces.
My phone is in my hand before I've consciously reached for it. I stare at the screen for only a moment before pulling up a contact I haven't used in years.
"Stevens." The voice on the other end is clipped and professional.
"I need you to find someone." My voice comes out as a command, not a plea.
"Sure. Give it to me."
"Name's Sloane Brennan. Last known address is Augusta, Georgia. She moved out a few weeks ago. I want every lead you can get."
"Spelling on the name?" Stevens asks, all business.
"S-L-O-A-N-E. B-R-E-N-N-A-N. She's twenty-five. Pediatric behavioral therapist. Originally from Augusta. Has an undergraduate degree from Wofford College and a master's from Clemson University.”
"Employment history? Family contacts?"
"Last employed at Coastal Children's in Palm Beach, Florida. Before that, clinical rotations in Charleston." I leave out the nanny position. If that even registers, I don't want it to be connected with the scandal.
“Parents still live in Augusta, I think. She has a friend named Maris who lives here in Augusta, I think. But I'm not sure of the last name.”
“Timeline for results?”
“Yesterday.”
“Mr. Carrigan?—”
“I don’t care what it costs. Find her.”