16. Dante #2
Cole watches her go, leaning against the counter with his coffee, his jaw tight above the rim. He waits until her door closes.
"We need to talk," he says.
Cole keeps both hands around the coffee mug.
"She told me everything Sunday," he says. "The calls. The letter. The name. I've known about Ashford since I was thirteen. The parole, I confirmed through Richard."
He takes one breath before he continues.
"The 413 calls. Seven or eight of them. Six-second silences. She's been deleting every one."
My hands go still against my mug.
"There's a letter," Cole says. "Hand-delivered to her apartment door. No postmark. No return address." He pauses. "Her old name on the front. The sealed name. The one she buried at thirteen."
The name I know exists but have never seen lands between us. A birth certificate filed under something else. The sealed record. The name she carried in the life before Maddox.
"Who?" I say.
"Her father." Cole's hands are steady on the mug. His knuckles are white. "David Ashford. Released on parole."
"Released."
"Eight years served. Out on good behavior.
" Cole's voice stays flat and steady, both hands locked around the mug.
"He broke her ribs when she was thirteen, Dante.
Fractured her arm. Put her in a hospital bed for three weeks with internal injuries.
That was when Suzanne called Richard. He drove four hours in the middle of the night and brought them home. "
Ribs. Arm. Hospital. Thirteen years old. My hands are on the counter, the granite is cold, and my vision narrows.
"The name change took months," Cole says. "The conviction took longer."
"And now he's out."
"And now he's out. And he knows where she lives."
I put my mug down, walk to the sink, and brace both hands on the counter before I do something stupid with them. My jaw locks hard enough for pain to flash through my molars. The granite is cold under my palms, but my hands are shaking so badly the counter might as well be moving.
Her ribs. Her arm. Thirteen years old. Three weeks in a hospital bed.
A man did that to a child, served eight years, walked out on good behavior, found her sealed name, found her address, and stood outside her door close enough to place an envelope against the wood.
My chest clamps first. Then my shoulders lock. Heat burns down my arms into my fingers, and for three seconds, the only thing I hear is my own pulse. My phone is in my pocket.
"Dante."
"Don't talk to me for a second."
The counter is cold under my palms. The kitchen is quiet.
Cole is behind me giving me the second I asked for, which is more discipline than I have right now.
What I want is to pick up the phone and call Marco and say I need a name and an address in Massachusetts.
The name and the address would be in my hands by nightfall.
David Ashford would learn exactly what happens when a man touches something protected by a Voss and mistakes the silence afterward for mercy.
Milan is still in my head. The family's infrastructure waits under my skin.
My hand is on the counter. The phone is in my pocket. My hand starts to lift, and I flatten my fingers against the stone because fuck, I want to make the call.
"Does she know you're telling me?" I ask.
"No."
"She's going to be angry."
"Probably."
"She'll be right."
"I know." Cole sets the mug down. "And I'm telling you anyway because he knows where she lives and she won't call Richard and I can't carry this alone."
I turn around. Cole is standing at the counter with his arms crossed, his jaw set and his eyes wet. He lets me see it. Tears sit on his face, and he makes no move to wipe them.
"What do you need from me?" I say.
"I need you to keep your hand away from your phone."
"You don't know what I'm about to do."
"You're going to call Marco," Cole says. "By Friday, David Ashford will be having the worst week of his life, and your jaw does that thing when you're deciding whether to use your family or the system."
The accuracy knocks the air out of my chest.
"That's not how we do this," Cole says.
"How do we do it?"
"We talk to Richard. We go through the parole board. We file the violation. He's breaching a protection order. The legal route."
"The legal route let him out."
"I know."
"It gave him good behavior and a release date, and now he's standing outside her door with her dead name on an envelope."
"I know, Dante."
"So tell me why the legal route deserves another chance."
Cole uncrosses his arms and puts his hands flat on the counter.
"Because if you use your family's resources, she will find out. Then she'll look at you and see another man deciding what happens to her before she gets a choice."
"That's not the same thing."
"You know it's not. I know it's not." Cole's voice cracks on the next breath, and he pulls it back under control. "Her body won't hear the difference."
I stare at him. He stares back. His eyes are still wet.
"The legal route," I say.
"The legal route."
"And if the legal route fails?"
"Then we figure it out." His hands press harder against the counter. "Together."
My hand leaves the counter and goes into my pocket. The phone is right there. Marco is a text away. The infrastructure that could locate one paroled man in Western Massachusetts is a single phone call and forty-eight hours away, and pretending I will never use it would make me a fucking liar.
I take my hand out of my pocket. Empty.
"I'll talk to Richard," I say. "Today."
"We'll talk to Richard. Both of us."
"She's going to be angry at you for telling me."
"I'll handle it."
"Cole." His eyes meet mine. "You sat next to me for four days knowing this."
"I've been sitting next to you knowing things about Maya for nine years, D. Four days is nothing."
Nine years. The number scrapes on the way down. Nine years of watching Maya flinch and managing the room around the flinch, of knowing why the door bar exists and why the breathing count runs at 2 a.m. He has been carrying this since he was thirteen.
He leaves his coffee on the counter and goes upstairs, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, announcing his position.
I stand in the kitchen alone.
Three mugs are on the counter. The blanket is folded on the couch. The sticky note is in my pocket. Thank you.—M.
I pick up my phone and open a new message to Richard.
Richard. We need to talk. Today. About Maya.
I send it, lock the phone, and set it on the counter.
The response comes in under a minute.
I've been waiting for this call. 4 p.m. My office. Bring Cole.
He knew. Richard answered in less than a minute. The father who drove four hours. The man who showed her the door bar trick. An attorney who sealed her name.
The house is quiet. Maya is behind her door. Cole is behind his. The phone is on the counter between the three mugs.
Marco's next text will come. It always comes. The family is already there before you decide whether to reach for it.
I head to practice. The sticky note is in my pocket. The promise I made Cole is four minutes old.
It already weighs more than anything Marco has ever asked of me.