Chapter 23
Wishes
Maliyah
It had been weeks since Reed and I split. I stood in my kitchen making lunches for the kids and realized I'd gone an entire morning without thinking about him—without missing him.
Progress, I told myself. This was progress.
A small hand tugged at my sleeve, and I looked down to find Zoe standing there, one sock striped purple, the other dotted blue, with a pink tutu fluffed out over her navy leggings. She pointed toward the fridge, her eyes wide and hopeful. "Mama, can I have the strawberry yogurt?"
"We're out of strawberry. How about vanilla?"
"But I don't like vanilla."
"You liked it yesterday."
"Yesterday was yesterday." She crossed her arms, her expression so serious it almost made me smile.
"How about I put some strawberries in the vanilla yogurt?"
She sighed dramatically but accepted this solution—which let's be real, probably has less sugar—something my kid definitely doesn't need. Small victories.
Lucas shuffled in, backpack already on, hair sticking up on one side. He glanced at the empty chair where Reed used to sit drinking coffee when he'd come over. When our eyes met, he quickly looked away, hitched his backpack higher on his small shoulders.
A week after I'd told him "Detective Reed needed to focus on his job," he'd stopped saying Reed's name entirely. His small shoulders hunched forward slightly as he bent to tie his shoe, the gesture so adult-like on his small frame that something twisted painfully behind my ribs.
"Ready?" I asked, grabbing my purse and the lunch bags.
"Can we get donuts on the way?" Lucas asked hopefully.
"It's Tuesday. We get donuts on Saturdays."
"But what if we got them on Tuesday this time?"
"Nice try. Let's go."
The morning routine was familiar, comforting in its predictability. Drop Lucas at the bus stop, then the drive to Harbor House Road where Zoe's daycare was in-house. I'd thrown myself into work, taking on extra tasks aimed at fundraising—a job that is never finished in this world.
Some of the team had noticed me throwing myself into work. "You're doing too much," Danya, one of the social workers, said yesterday, catching me in the office at seven PM. "You should go home. Rest."
But home meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering Reed's face when he'd said he needed space. Remembering how easily he'd let me go.
When the kids were busy with their activities, work gave me another focus.
I was halfway to Harbor House Road when I noticed the car behind me. A dark sedan, staying two cars back. Nothing unusual about it—Boston traffic was always heavy. But something made me check my rearview mirror again.
Still there.
At the next light, I changed lanes. At first, the sedan stayed in its lane. After the next light though, it switched lanes and came up behind me again.
My pulse picked up. I told myself I was being paranoid. That heartbreak was making me see threats where there were none. But I'd spent years learning to trust my instincts about danger, and my instincts were screaming.
I took a sudden right turn, looping back toward my apartment instead of continuing to work. The sedan went straight. I breathed a sigh of relief. I turned left at the next corner planning to go back around. Looking behind me moments later, and I swear the same sedan was back. Am I losing it?
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I pulled out my phone, voice-dialing Felicity while keeping my eyes on the mirror.
"Hey, you okay?" she answered.
"I think someone's following me."
"What? Where are you?"
"Heading back toward my place. Dark sedan, can't see the plates from here. And I can't see into the front windshield from my angle." I made another turn. This time, the car stayed with me. "Definitely following."
"Call the police."
"And tell them what? A car is driving on the same streets as me?" I pulled into my building's parking lot. The sedan drove past, not slowing. I caught a glimpse of the driver—male, hoodie, baseball cap, sunglasses. Could have been anyone.
Shit, I forgot to look at the license plate.
"Maliyah?"
"It drove past. I'm probably just paranoid."
"After everything with Bryce, you're allowed to be paranoid." Felicity's voice was firm. "You still have that restraining order. If you think it's him, call the police."
"I didn't see his face clearly. It might not have been him."
"But it might have been."
I sat in my car for a long moment after hanging up, watching the street. No dark sedan. No sign of anyone watching. Just normal morning traffic, people heading to work, life continuing all around me.
You're just being paranoid, Maliyah. Had to be.
I drove to work and tried to forget about it.
That night, I triple-checked the locks before bed. Pulled up the camera app on my phone, cycling through the four feeds—living room, hallway, both kids' windows facing the street. Everything quiet. Everything normal.
I was overreacting. The car had been a coincidence. I was jumpy because of Reed, because my defenses were down, because I was exhausted from single-handedly holding my life together.
I fell asleep with the phone on my nightstand, camera app still open.
The sound that woke me wasn't loud. Just a soft scrape, metal on metal. My eyes opened in the darkness, heart already racing.
The doorknob. Someone was trying the doorknob.
I was out of bed before the thought fully formed. Gun case. Nightstand drawer. Fingers on the lock, twist, grip the handle. Safety off.
I crept to the door on quiet feet, gun raised. Put my eye to the peephole.
Empty hallway. Fluorescent lights humming. Nothing.
But I'd heard it. I knew I'd heard it.
I stood there, barely breathing, listening for another sound. Thirty seconds. A minute. The seconds ticked by. Nothing.
I slid down with my back against the door and stayed there, gun in my lap, watching the darkness of my apartment. Twenty minutes passed before I could make myself move to the kids' rooms.
Finally, when I could force myself to move, I headed over to the kids' bedrooms and settled myself on the floor, back resting on the wall between their doors. No way I was getting back to sleep now.
Maybe I'd imagined it. Stress, exhaustion, paranoia—take your pick.
But I wasn't moving away from my kids' rooms—not a chance.
By Saturday, I’d had enough time and space to start to feel comfortable again—questioning if it had been a dream or my imagination.
It was Lucas’s birthday and, in all honesty, it was the one bright spot in the weeks since everything fell apart.
I'd been planning it obsessively, pouring energy into something I could actually control. Dinosaur cake from the bakery. Streamers in green and blue. A handful of kids from his class whose parents had RSVPed yes. Felicity and Caden. Macy, who'd insisted on bringing party games.
We held it at Felicity’s, where they had a huge backyard compared to my apartment.
The place was chaos by noon—kids running everywhere, Zoe trying to "help" by rearranging the napkins every five minutes, Lucas's classmates hyped up on juice boxes and anticipation. Normal birthday chaos. And it was amazing.
Only one exception—I kept catching Lucas glancing at the door.
"Time for cake!" Felicity announced, carrying the T-Rex monstrosity I'd spent too much money on. Seven candles flickered on top, casting dancing shadows across Lucas's serious face.
"Make a wish, baby," I said, crouching beside him.
He stared at the candles for a long moment. Too long. His jaw tightened the way it did when he was trying not to feel something.
Then he closed his eyes, scrunched up his face in concentration, and blew.
All seven flames went out in one breath. Everyone cheered. Zoe clapped so hard she nearly fell off her chair.
"What'd you wish for?" one of his classmates asked.
"Can't tell," Lucas said quietly. "Or it won't come true."
His eyes flicked to the door one more time. Then back to the cake, like he was forcing himself not to look again.
The party continued. Games were played. Presents were opened. Lucas posed for photos when Felicity shoved her phone in his face. He was happy—everything a seven-year-old should be.
But I knew my son. I knew he still missed him. I knew he was thinking about Reed.
After the guests had gone, Felicity and I started cleanup duty. Things quieted down, but Lucas appeared to still be having fun. He and Zoe were going through all the presents, chucking the boxes and wrapping paper while packing up the contents to take home.
Once we got home, the kids went through the steps to get ready for bed and I did the same.
I found Lucas in his room just before bedtime.
He was sitting on his bed, holding the watch I’d inherited from my father—the one I'd given Lucas last year.
He turned it over in his small hands, not really looking at it.
"Hey, birthday boy." I sat beside him, the mattress dipping under my weight. "You okay?"
"Yeah." He didn't look up.
"Lucas."
He was quiet for a long moment. His thumb traced the edge of the watch face.
"I didn't wish for LEGOs," he finally said.
My chest tightened. "No?"
"I wished—" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, tried again. "I wished he'd come. I kept thinking maybe he'd show up. Like a surprise." He finally looked at me, and the hurt in his eyes nearly broke me. "But he didn't. So I guess wishes are stupid."
I pulled him into my arms, feeling his small body tense and then slowly relax against me. He didn't cry. My boy who used to cry over everything had learned to hold it in. I wasn't sure if that was growth or not at this stage.
"I'm so sorry, baby."
"It's not your fault." His voice was muffled against my shoulder. "You didn't make him leave."
No. I didn't. But I'd let him in. I'd let both of us believe he might stay.
"He said he'd take me to a game," Lucas continued, pulling back to look at me. "He said he was going to get tickets to a game—since I hadn’t been to one."
I hadn't known that. Reed had never mentioned it to me. The thought of him planning something like that made the ache in my chest sharpen. It broke my heart to see my kid like this.
"I'm sorry he broke that promise, sweetheart."
"Why do grown-ups do that?" Lucas picked at a loose thread on his comforter, not meeting my eyes. "You always tell me not to make promises I can't keep. But grown-ups do it all the time."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. How do you explain fear and trauma to a seven-year-old? How do you make sense of something that doesn't make sense to you either?
"I don't know, baby. Sometimes people get scared. And when they're scared, they make bad choices."
"Was he scared of us?"
My breath caught. "No. Not of you. Never of you."
Lucas considered this, his fingers still working at that thread. Then, quietly: "Then what?"
I smoothed the hair back from his forehead—the cowlick that never stayed down, no matter how much I tried. "You know how his dad was a police officer?"
"Yeah."
"Well, his dad got hurt and didn't make it home one day. Reed was just about the same age as you when that happened."
Lucas's hands stilled. He looked up at me, something shifting behind his eyes. "Oh."
"So when Reed got hurt—" I paused, searching for the right words. "I think it scared him. A lot. Made him remember what happened to his dad. And he got worried the same thing might happen to you and Zoe that he went through."
Lucas was quiet for a long moment. His brow furrowed the way it did when he was working through a math problem. Finally, he said, "That's dumb."
A surprised laugh escaped me. "What?"
"It's dumb." He looked at me, fierce and certain in the way only kids can be. "Can we tell him it doesn't matter? That I'd take the chance?" His voice wobbled slightly. "Because me and Zoe want him more than we don't."
My throat closed. I pulled him against me, blinking hard.
"Oh, baby."
"Can we tell him, Mom?"
I pressed my lips to the top of his head, breathing in the little-boy smell of him—grass and sweat and the cheap shampoo he insisted on because the bottle had a dinosaur on it.
"It's not that simple, sweetheart."
"Why not?"
Because I’m too scared to reach out. Because he made his choice and I’m supposed to be strong and not care. I’m supposed to put my feelings aside and stop loving him.
"Sometimes grown-ups need to figure things out on their own," I finally said. "Even when other people want to help."
Lucas pulled back, jaw set. "That's dumb too."
I almost smiled. "Yeah. It kind of is."
He was quiet for another moment. Then: "I’m tired. Gonna go to bed, okay?"
"Okay, baby. Whatever you need."
I kissed my baby’s forehead realizing I couldn't fix this brokenness. But I could be here. I could answer his questions, hug him in these moments and show Lucas that sometimes hurts happened, but I would be here to hold him no matter what.
Even if it meant doing it alone.
That night, after the kids were asleep and the apartment was quiet, I stood at the kitchen window staring at the empty street below.
Somewhere out there, Reed was probably sitting in his apartment. Did he know what day it was? Did he remember the plans he'd made, the promises he'd broken?
Did he care?
My phone sat on the counter. I could call him. Make him hear what he'd missed. Make him understand what his absence had cost.
But what would be the point? He'd made his choice.
A car stood out front of my apartment, idling. No one getting in or out. Dark sedan. Tinted windows.
My breath caught. I turned out all the lights to get a better look outside without the glare and I watched it as the driver started forward and turn the corner—disappearing into the night.
Probably nothing. Just paranoia. Just the weight of too many things gone wrong.
I checked the locks. Pulled the curtains closed. Checked the cameras.
And tried not to think about any of it—not Reed, not the sedan, not exhaustion of doing life alone, or the pain of giving my heart again only to have it burned to a crisp.
Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.