Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Alicia
I’ve spent the day combing through every piece of information tied to the Crawford case, along with files on another client—Howard Wells—who faced extortion built on information purchased from the same source.
By late afternoon, my eyes burn from the blue-light glare. The cursor blinks on the screen, patient and relentless, as I sift through every scrap. Nothing stands out as worth risking prison over—just the usual mix of salacious dirt and power games, lies dressed in bespoke suits.
One name appears twice in the payment records—Kwame Asante-Bridges, listed under a media holding—but the transaction is categorized as market intelligence, the kind of purchase any competitive media company would make without a second thought. I file it under unremarkable and move on.
There are a few threads that could unravel into something criminal if pushed hard enough—bribes, financial dealings that could be interpreted the wrong way—but I can’t be the only one holding this information.
Of course—what happened with Stella wasn’t actually connected to the case. That was my worst-case scenario, spun too fast and too far. And it was wrong.
My phone buzzes.
Dick: OTW with Stella. Are you home?
Me: Y
He doesn’t always check. Stella’s twelve. She can be home alone for short stretches without issue. But after yesterday, I suppose we’re both recalibrating.
I set the phone down and exit my home office, descending the steps. I presume Noah’s in the basement, but instead of finding him, I head for the front door and step outside, waiting on the stoop.
The air bites through my blouse, carrying the faint scent of smoke from a neighbor’s chimney. I should grab a coat, but I don’t move. I need to see that car turn the corner. I need to put my hands on her.
The urge sharpens, impossible to ignore. It’s irrational—I know that. Nothing actually happened yesterday. But logic doesn’t quiet it. This is something deeper, something instinctive, and I don’t have the will to fight it.
Noah has done everything he can to steady me. To be present. To give me something solid to lean on.
And I’m grateful—more than I’ve let myself say out loud.
Because without him, I would have broken. I would have shown up at Richard’s door, asking to sit at their table, pretending I just didn’t feel like being alone.
Richard’s BMW appears at the end of the block.
Instead of pulling to the curb, he turns into the drive, stopping in the narrow stretch between the closed gate and the street.
Relief hits first. Then dread, close behind it—one feeding the other.
The passenger door swings open, and Stella climbs out, already smiling.
That smile is sunlight.
And behind it—Richard, like a storm rolling in.
She runs straight into me, and I gather her close, my hands moving instinctively—into her hair, over her cheeks, tracing the familiar scatter of freckles like I need the confirmation that she’s real, that she’s here.
Richard steps out more slowly. He reaches into the car, past the back passenger door Stella left open, and pulls out her overnight bag and backpack. The door slams shut behind him, the sound like a shotgun in the suburban hum.
The front door opens.
Noah steps outside.
“Hey, Noah,” Stella says, bright and easy.
I don’t let her go right away. My hands stay in her hair, smoothing it back, grounding myself in the feel of her.
Richard and Noah exchange a nod—controlled, measured. It lands less like acknowledgment and more like a line being drawn.
“Alicia,” he says quietly, voice tight. “We need to talk. Alone.”
“Dad, I told you I’m not—”
“It’s not about that sugar bug.”
She shifts, reaching for her things. “’Kay. Love you, Dad.”
My gaze flicks to the car. Jessica sits in the front passenger seat, watching—likely aware of Richard’s request for a private talk.
“Can we speak in your office?” The request for a seemingly official location sets me on edge.
“Sure.”
Noah holds the door as we pass, and I catch his gaze, offering a small smile meant to reassure him.
Everything’s fine.
Or it will be.
Richard doesn’t wait—he leads the charge up the stairs. Of course, Richard knows the layout of my home, and acts like he owns it.
Stella veers toward the kitchen, already at the refrigerator by the time I follow him. As I climb the stairs, Noah heads down the hallway to join her.
When I reach my office, Richard is standing in the room, flustered, jaw tight.
“Close the door.”
By common accord, when we argue, we don’t do so within earshot of Stella. That’s the only reason I do as he requests.
He paces once, the soles of his shoes whispering against the rug, then gestures toward my desk. There are some files on it, but it’s neatly organized. Nothing to indicate the chaos I’ve been combing through today.
“I want to know what you’ve gotten yourself involved in.”
I bite back the instinctive response—that my clients’ business isn’t his to question.
“There’s an upcoming court case,” I say evenly. “It’s possible I could be subpoenaed. It’s exactly what I told you.”
“This is related to the Vasquez scandal.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but I take it as one.
I step past my desk, wanting it between me and Richard, but I don’t sit, as I sense he has no plans to take a more congenial posture. “Yes. Tangentially.”
Richard lives in DC. He doesn’t need details to assemble the broader picture.
“Stella should come live with me.”
My stomach drops, and my fingers curl into my palms.
“Think about it.”
“Richard. Yesterday had nothing to do with that.”
“No. It didn’t. But you thought it could have.”
I hold his gaze.
I don’t want this fight. Not in court. Not dragged out and dissected. But if it comes to that, I won’t hesitate.
“If I believe she’s in danger—if the security I have in place isn’t enough—I’ll consider it. But if it comes to that, you’ll need to have security too.”
“She’s safer at my house. And you wouldn’t even give me fall break.”
Of course he’s still sore about fall break, but I don’t take the bait. “Is she safer at your house?” My voice softens, but there’s no give in it. “Tell me, Richard—how long are your naps these days?”
The question lands exactly the way I want it to—yes, if he brings this into court, I’ll find a way to mention yesterday’s events.
His mouth tightens, his gaze shifting toward the window. When he turns, there’s an anger simmering that I haven’t sensed in years. “Let’s talk about your naps. I don’t want the details on Delacroix. I suspected—”
“At the time you didn’t care,” I say, filling in the blank for him. After I had Stella, he began working round the clock—and we both know it wasn’t all office-related.
He presses his lips together, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s in the past.”
Of course it is.
“But now—you’re living with a man? What is he? Black? Hispanic? In the same house as my daughter?”
The air punches out of me. For a second, all I hear is the hum of the HVAC, the dull thud of my heartbeat.
“Since when are you racist?” I ask, each word precise.
“I’m not racist,” he snaps. “I’m concerned for our daughter. What will her friends say?”
I stare at him.
“Listen to yourself, Richard.”
The argument isn’t worth dignifying. We live in a part of DC where no one blinks at a multiracial couple. This isn’t about Stella. It’s about him.
And if I’m being honest—it wouldn’t matter who I was seeing. He’d find a problem with it.
Still…something in the way he said Delacroix twists at the edge of my thoughts. I would have sworn he had no idea back then.
He exhales sharply, tipping his head back.
“Damn it, Alicia.” With that, he steps to the door, but stops, with his hand on the knob.
“And for the record, I didn’t know about Delacroix.
Even when the detective insinuated, I didn’t believe it—but you just confirmed it.
” Under his breath, he adds, “I should’ve fought harder for her.
Maybe then she wouldn’t be growing up in your mess. ”
He’s out of the room before I can snap that he would’ve been welcome to try, but I would’ve fought back tooth and nail.
I exit the office and stand at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, pulse thrumming in my throat, listening to the echo of the slammed front door fading into silence.
Noah appears at the bottom of the stairs, tension etched across his face.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I will be.” My voice sounds foreign—steady when I feel anything but.
He starts up toward me, slow, deliberate steps. “What happened?”
“Richard,” I manage. “He thinks he’s protecting Stella.”
His jaw flexes, eyes dark with understanding. “And you?”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my chest all day.
“He’s an asshole.”
The space between us crackles, heavy with all the things I can’t fix tonight—ex-husbands, past mistakes, the creeping shadow of an investigation that’s starting to feel way too personal.
Noah reaches the top step, close enough that I can see the light catch in his dark eyes.
“I’ll head downstairs,” he says quietly. “You and Stella—figure out dinner. I’ll go pick something up when you’re ready.”
I nod, forcing a breath past the knot in my chest. “Thank you.”
He lingers a second, like he wants to say more, then turns and disappears down the hall, back toward the basement and the security monitors.
I stand there for a moment longer, then turn back toward my office.
The files sit on my desk like loaded weapons.
Tomorrow.
I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
For now, my daughter is home.
Later, after she’s in bed, I can run down the miles on a treadmill. Punch a boxing bag if needed. For now, I need to fight the urge to shatter something—and remember that fear and fury aren’t the same thing as weakness.