Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Alicia
Jessica’s perfume hasn’t cleared the foyer yet.
“Does Stella like her?”
“She does,” I admit, glancing toward the stairs and the wine I left behind. “At least I think she does. Give me a minute.”
With that, I climb the stairs, continuing on to the third floor. I give a quick rap against the open door, announcing my presence. Stella’s sprawled on her bed, iPad inches from her face.
“That doesn’t look like homework.”
“Mom—I just got home.”
“What’s the rule?”
She combines an eye roll with a stare in the way only a preteen can manage. “Fine.” She drops her iPad on the bed, face down.
“I’m leaning toward pizza.”
“That works,” she says with a brighter note in her voice—my only clue she likes the idea. Not that I need a clue. She’s loved pizza since she was three.
“Okay. I’ll call you when it’s here.”
I pause, waiting for her to at least pretend to start homework. With a dramatic huff, she opens her laptop.
“My homework’s on here,” she says.
I give her a thumbs-up. “Just checking.”
She rolls her eyes again, but this time there’s a grin behind it.
I’m one step into the hall when I pause and ask, “Do you want to go on fall break with your dad?” He didn’t mention where they are going, but knowing her father, it’ll be fantastic.
She shrugs. “Sure. I don’t know. Not really. Is it better for you if I go with him?”
“Not at all. You know I love having you home. But if they’re going somewhere fun, I don’t want to hold you back.”
Richard and I have holiday custody agreed to for the next five years, but we also agreed to be reasonably flexible.
“The Cape,” she says, referencing Richard’s parents’ vacation home. “Although Jessica mentioned going someplace warm, Turks and Caicos maybe? I don’t know what they’ve decided.”
I almost tell her it’s up to her, but stop myself, not wanting to put the decision on her shoulders. She might act like a teen, but she’s still a kid, and Richard and I should talk it through. If she’s with him, he’ll need to trade a future holiday.
“Alright, well, I’ll call you down when dinner’s here.”
She’s already got her headphones on, eyes back on the screen before I’ve cleared the doorway. Hopefully schoolwork.
In my office, I place an order for pizza, retrieve my wine, and head downstairs to find Noah at the kitchen island, a phone in hand, scrolling.
“I can go downstairs if you prefer. But you said to give you a second…”
“No, please, stay.” I slide onto a stool. “I like the company. I mean, I know that’s not what you’re paid for—”
“Happy to hang out.” His lips twitch. “Does she know what happened today?”
“No.” My brow furrows. “Richard wouldn’t…” I trail off, second-guessing myself. There’s Jessica.
I thumb a message to Richard, just to be sure.
“It’s gotta be hard for three adults to parent together,” Noah says.
“She doesn’t—” I stop. Maybe I’ve been pretending Jessica’s temporary because it’s easier.
“I get it,” he says. “They’re not married. When my dad started dating Linda, it took me a while, too. Can’t say I see her as a stepmom even now.”
“Are your parents divorced?”
“My mom passed away. Linda was one of my mom’s friends.” He half-chuckles, then scratches his jaw.
“Was that good or bad?”
He tilts his head, thoughtful. The kitchen light catches the gold in his brown eyes. He’s leaning against the island, relaxed—one arm on the counter, hand wrapped loosely around his water glass. The sweater he’s wearing fits close enough that I notice the breadth of his shoulders. I look away.
“Weird,” he says finally, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “But I got over it. I wasn’t around much anyway.”
“Military,” I guess.
He nods. “Yeah. I enlisted right after Mom got sick. Thought she’d beat it.”
His words swirl emotions that on a normal day I’d redirect, keep things professional. But after today—finding Matthew, the interrogation, Richard—my defenses are down. I want to offer comfort.
“When we’re young,” I say softly, “it’s almost impossible to fathom death. Unless you’ve lived through it.”
He pushes up, refills his glass with water, then lifts the wine bottle without asking, and refreshes mine. The gesture’s easy and natural.
“You close with your parents?” he asks.
“My parents both passed away.”
He’s silent, giving me space. It’s strangely easy to keep going. “Car accident. I was fifteen. I don’t think I even said goodbye that night.”
He exhales, leaning back against the counter. “That’s rough. And here I was feeling sorry for myself.”
“It wasn’t all bad,” I admit, and smile faintly. “I mean, losing them was horrible, but my grandmother took me in. She saved me, really. She let me mourn but didn’t let me wallow.”
“She sounds like a force.”
“She was. Harvard was her idea. She passed away five years ago.”
He winces in sympathy. “You’re three-for-three. That’s brutal.”
“She lived a full life,” I say. “And honestly? I’m glad she didn’t have to see my divorce. That would’ve crushed her.”
“How long ago?”
“Finalized two years ago. Separated four years before that. So there was this…window.” I gesture vaguely. “When I pretended things were fine for her sake.”
He nods, eyes soft. “You were protecting her.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Maybe protecting myself too.”
He doesn’t rush to reassure me or offer platitudes. Just nods like he understands exactly what I mean.
He comes around the island and joins me. “Linda’s…fine. She makes Dad happy. That’s enough.”
“I haven’t thought of Jessica as Stella’s stepmom,” I say slowly, “but maybe I should. My instinct’s to keep her at arm’s length.”
“Protective instinct,” he says. “Nothing wrong with that.”
There’s a brief silence, the good kind—warm and unforced.
“You and your ex seemed cordial earlier,” he says. “That for show?”
“Not a show. Just a rule. We’re always civil in front of Stella.”
“Smart. She doesn’t need the crossfire.”
“Exactly. But Richard and I don’t always see eye to eye.”
He grins. “If you did, you wouldn’t be divorced.”
“True.” I glance at him, noticing how relaxed he looks here—one arm draped over the back of the stool, a faint smile playing at his mouth. “You? Ever married?”
“No. Not even close. I’ve had serious relationships though.” He taps his glass against the counter. “They were good people. I’d like to think I am too. But together? We didn’t fit. I’ve stopped seeing breakups as failures.”
Thirty-one and self-aware enough to not force something that doesn’t work. I respect that.
“That’s an evolved view.”
“Or just practiced,” he says lightly. I laugh, and it feels good. The first genuine laugh all day.
He studies me for a beat. “You’re not judging me for being single. That’s what you’re getting at, right? When you say evolved?”
“No judgment,” I echo. “Period.”
He glances toward the dark windows and the flickering headlights passing in the street. “You walk around and close these every night, or…”
I reach for the remote beside the fruit bowl. The mechanical hum fills the silence as the blinds descend. Noah watches them lower, one by one, until we’re cocooned in soft light.
“That’s convenient,” he says.
“Dorian insisted.”
Just as the blinds click shut, the doorbell rings.
“Pizza,” I say, setting down my glass. “Please, stay. Eat with us.”
He stands. “Only if it’s my treat.”
I arch a brow. “I ordered two pizzas. Stella can eat half a pizza on her own.”
“Works for me.” His smile widens—possibly the first real one of the night.
The doorbell rings again, impatient this time.
Noah opens the door before I can. He exchanges a few words with the delivery guy, tips him, and returns with both boxes balanced on one forearm. Like this is normal. Like he belongs here. The thought catches me off guard.
The smell of melted cheese and garlic fills the kitchen.
“Careful,” I warn. “She can smell pizza from a mile away.”
“Should I brace for impact?”
“Probably.”
Right on cue, Stella’s voice calls down the stairs. “Is it here?”
“Yep. Come on down!” I shout.
She appears a moment later, sock-footed, hair back in a messy bun, her face lighting up at the sight of the boxes. She freezes mid-step when she sees Noah at the counter.
“Oh. Hey.”
“Hey, Stella.” He nods, friendly but not forced.
“I got half pepperoni, half veggie and a cheese. Gave you both options,” I say.
Stella eyes the boxes like she’s choosing between desserts.
Noah lays both out on the island, tops back to display the contents. “You get first dibs.”
She cracks a grin, and something softens in her expression. “Thanks.”
We sit around the island—me with my wine, Stella with a soda, Noah with his glass of water—and everything that happened today dissipates—or at least, it doesn’t feel as present.
“Do you always eat at the counter?” Noah asks, lifting a slice.
“Depends on the night,” I say. “Rarely in the dining room. Sometimes on the couch if we’re watching a movie.”
“Mostly here,” Stella pipes in.
“Good call.” Noah asks Stella, “You a movie person?”
“Depends on the movie,” she says around a mouthful of cheese. “If Mom picks, it’s usually something depressing with subtitles.”
I gasp in mock offense. “Excuse me—educational.”
“Exactly what I said,” she mutters.
Noah chuckles, the sound low and easy. “I’m guessing you prefer something with explosions.”
“Or dogs,” she says, wiping her mouth. “Explosions and dogs would be perfect.”
He grins. “You ever seen John Wick?”
“Mom won’t let me.”
“For good reason,” I say. “Dogs, yes. Explosions, yes. But also nightmares.”
Noah raises his hands in surrender. “Fair. I forgot about the nightmare potential.”
Stella giggles. “Mom checks everything with Common Sense Media.”
Conversation drifts from movies to food—her school lunch options, the healthy items that I cook that she’s not crazy about, Noah admitting he once set off a smoke alarm trying to make pancakes in a hotel room.
By the time the pizza box is empty, the air has loosened. Stella’s leaning on her elbows, telling Noah about play practice for The Crucible.
“The monologues can get tedious. But the later scenes…you can really get the hysteria—and that’s with middle school kids performing.”
“I bet,” Noah says, genuinely interested. “You like performing?”
She shrugs, but her eyes brighten. “Kinda. It’s fun. Even if you don’t get a big role.”
“She’s being modest,” I say. “She has perfect timing. Always has.”
“Timing’s everything,” Noah says, smiling. “You know, that’s true for the field too.”
“What field?” she asks.
“Security,” I say quickly. “He used to work in military security.”
“Oh.” She studies him with sudden curiosity. “Like guarding people?”
“Sometimes,” he says lightly. “Sometimes watching out for things they didn’t know were there.”
Her brow furrows as she thinks that over. “Like spies?”
He chuckles. “Not quite that cool. More like keeping people safe without them noticing.”
“Like you’re doing now,” she says.
There’s a short silence—unexpectedly tender—and I see Noah glance at me before answering.
“Exactly like that.”
Her grin is bright and unguarded, and I can’t help smiling too.
“Can I be excused?” she asks, plate already lifted in the air.
“Homework first,” I say automatically.
“Already done.”
I raise a brow.
“Mostly done,” she amends.
“Go on.”
She leans in to hug me—quick but real—then waves to Noah. “Bye. Thanks for the pizza.”
“Anytime,” he says.
When her footsteps fade upstairs, the house goes still again, but it’s a comfortable kind of quiet.
“She’s great,” he says.
“She is.” I watch the spot where she disappeared, a smile still tugging at my mouth. “Most of the time.”
“Strong-willed.”
“She gets that honestly.”
He laughs softly, wiping his hands on a napkin. “I figured.”
We sit there for a moment—two adults at a quiet counter, the remains of dinner between us. There’s an ease that wasn’t there before, something unspoken but likely mutual.
“I should let you get some rest,” he says finally, standing.
I want to ask him to stay—just a little longer, just for the company—but I only nod. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Anytime,” he echoes, with that faint smile that lingers long after he’s gone downstairs.
The house feels different with him in it. Less empty.
But it doesn’t take long after I’ve cleaned and headed upstairs for bed, for the full force of the day to return. Matthew lying on the floor, unresponsive. The medics, lifting him onto the gurney. Their unhurried departure—because there was no one to save.