Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cate
Thirty-four minutes.
I’d changed into jeans and a soft blue sweater that said, “responsible adult who definitely doesn’t build teepees in dining rooms.” Megan was in leggings and a purple tunic, her hair in two neat braids that I’d somehow managed despite my hands shaking like I’d had seventeen espressos.
Thirty-three minutes.
Downstairs, I could hear the controlled chaos of four grown men trying to dismantle a craft store explosion in record time.
“Where do these go?” That was Hayden.
“I don’t know, just—just put them somewhere!” Nathan’s voice, slightly panicked.
A crash.
“SHIT!”
“Fitz, be careful with—”
Another crash. That one sounded like glass.
Oh God. Oh God, they’re breaking things.
They’re actually breaking things. The social worker is going to show up and there’s going to be broken glass everywhere and blood probably, knowing Fitz, and they’re going to think we live in a disaster zone run by incompetent adults who can’t even clean up without destroying the house and possibly requiring medical attention and— “Was that the good china?” Julien’s voice sounded horrified.
“There’s GOOD china?” Fitz sounded equally horrified.
“Not anymore!” Nathan called back.
We’re doomed.
We’re absolutely, completely, catastrophically doomed.
“Cate?” Megan was looking up at me with those big eyes. “Why is everyone yelling?”
“They’re just... helping Daddy clean up before our visitor gets here.” I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “You know how grown-ups get when they’re trying to tidy quickly.”
“Uncle Fitz said a bad word.”
“Yes. Yes, he did. We’ll... we’ll talk to him about that later.”
If we survive this. If Child Services doesn’t take Megan away and arrest me for being a terrible influence who lets people say bad words and break good china.
Thirty-two minutes.
I took Megan’s hand and headed downstairs, trying to prepare myself for whatever scene awaited us.
The living room was... better. The couch cushions were back where they belonged. The toys had been corralled into bins. The glitter drawings were gone from the walls, though I could see a faint sparkle on the coffee table that suggested the glitter itself was immortal and would outlive us all.
And probably show up in the social worker’s report.
“Home contains excessive amounts of craft herpes.”
In the dining room, Julien was frantically folding bed sheets while Hayden dealt with approximately forty balloons, trying to pop them quietly, which was apparently impossible because each one made a sound like a small gunshot.
Pop.
“Jesus!” Nathan jumped in the kitchen, nearly dropping an armful of mixing bowls.
Pop.
“Can you NOT?” Fitz hissed, his arms full of stuffed animals.
Pop.
“I’M TRYING TO BE QUIET!”
Pop. Pop. Pop.
“Oh, for bloody hell’s sake!” Fitz started.
“LANGUAGE!” three voices shouted at once.
The kitchen was still a disaster. Nathan was loading the dishwasher at superhuman speed while Fitz wiped down counters, both of them moving like they were competing in some kind of extreme cleaning sport. The dishwasher started with a loud WHOOSH that made everyone freeze for a second.
“Is that supposed to be that loud?” Hayden asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never used a dishwasher that costs more than my car!” Nathan shot back.
Thirty-one minutes.
“Cate!” Fitz spotted me, nearly tripping over a bin of toys. “Where do these go?” He was holding up three different types of flour—all-purpose, bread flour, and what looked like almond flour.
“Pantry, top shelf, doesn’t matter which order...”
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Everyone froze.
The knock came again. Firm. Official. The kind of knock that said, “I’m from the government, and I’m here to evaluate your entire life and find you wanting.”
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no, they’re early. They’re not supposed to be here for another thirty-one minutes. That’s not—that’s not how appointments work. You don’t just show up early to a home evaluation. There are RULES. There’s supposed to be TIME!”
This is it.
This is how it ends. Not with a bang but with a premature knock and a house full of broken china and medical professionals holding flour.
“Cate.” Gabriel’s hand landed on my shoulder, warm and steady. “Breathe.”
“I can’t breathe. Breathing is not an option right now. Breathing is for people whose houses are clean and whose social workers show up on time and who don’t have four grown men hiding in their kitchen with armfuls of baking supplies...”
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Louder this time. More insistent.
She knows.
She knows we’re in here, panicking.
She can probably hear us panicking.
“Okay.” Gabriel’s voice was calm. Controlled. The surgeon voice that he used when someone was bleeding out on his table. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You and I are going to answer the door. We’re going to step outside and talk to them. Give everyone time to finish.”
“Outside?” My voice came out strangled. “We’re going to talk to Child Services outside? Like we’re hiding something? Like we have something to hide? Which we do. We’re hiding a DISASTER ZONE and four medical professionals and approximately seventeen pounds of flour—”
“Cate.” He turned me to face him, his hands on my shoulders. “We’re going to step outside because it’s a nice day and we’re friendly people who enjoy fresh air. That’s all. Can you do that?”
I nodded, even though I absolutely could not do that.
I can’t do this.
I can’t lie to a social worker.
I can’t even lie to my dentist about flossing.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Coming!” Gabriel called, his hand finding mine.
His palm was warm, steady. Mine was sweating.
Great. Now I’m going to shake hands with a social worker with my disgusting sweaty palm, and she’s going to think I’m nervous because I’m guilty of something.
We walked to the door together. Behind us, I heard frantic whispers.
“Get the balloons!”
“I’m trying!”
Pop.
“QUIETLY!”
“How do you pop a balloon quietly?!”
“I don’t know. Figure it out!”
Gabriel’s hand tightened on mine. A warning squeeze.
Right. Act normal.
Be normal.
You’re a normal person answering your door normally.
Gabriel opened the door.
A woman stood on our doorstep. Mid-forties, professional pantsuit in navy blue, clipboard, sensible shoes, and an expression that suggested she’d seen everything and was not impressed by any of it.
She looked like she could smell fear.
She can definitely smell my fear.
I’m radiating fear.
I’m a fear beacon.
“Dr. Lyon?” She extended her hand. “I’m Carmella Rodriguez from Child Protective Services. I apologize for arriving early. My previous appointment was canceled, and I thought I’d see if you were available.”
Oh my God, she’s APOLOGIZING for being early.
She’s being nice about ruining our lives.
This is worse.
This is so much worse.
Nice people are the most dangerous because you can’t hate them for destroying everything you love.
“Of course,” Gabriel said smoothly, shaking her hand like we hadn’t just been in the middle of a cleaning apocalypse. “This is my wife, Cate.”
Wife.
He said wife.
I’m his wife.
His fake wife, who’s about to get his daughter taken away because I built a teepee in the dining room.
“Mrs. Lyon.” Ms. Rodriguez shook my hand. Her grip was firm. Professional. The grip of someone who was about to judge every single aspect of our lives and find us lacking.
Her hand was cool and dry.
Mine was definitely still sweating.
She noticed.
She’s making a mental note right now.
“Subject has sweaty palms. Clearly guilty of something.”
“Hi!” My voice came out too loud. Too bright. Too much like someone who was definitely hiding something. “It’s so nice to meet you! We were just—we were just—”
Think, Cate. Think of something normal.
What do normal people do on a Tuesday afternoon?
What do normal people who aren’t hiding a craft store explosion do?
“—enjoying the weather!” I finished. “It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it? We were actually just commenting on how nice it is. The weather. Today. Right now. This specific weather that’s happening.”
Gabriel’s hand tightened on mine.
Not a gentle squeeze this time.
More of a “please stop talking” squeeze.
“It is lovely,” Ms. Rodriguez agreed, glancing at her clipboard. “Shall we go inside?”
NO.
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Not until Fitz stops breaking things.
“Actually,” Gabriel began, and I could hear the calculation in his voice, the careful strategy, “would you mind if we chatted out here for a moment? Cate was just telling me about some concerns regarding the neighborhood, and I thought you might have some insight.”
What?
What concerns?
What the hell is he talking about?
I don’t have concerns about the neighborhood.
My only concern is the disaster inside the house!
Ms. Rodriguez looked between us, her pen poised over her clipboard. “Of course. What kind of concerns?”
Gabriel looked at me.
His expression was calm. Expectant.
His eyes said, “Help me out here.”
Oh God.
Oh God, he wants me to make something up.
He wants me to LIE to a social worker about neighborhood concerns.
I’m going to jail.
I’m going to jail for lying to Child Services, and Megan’s going to grow up visiting me in prison and... “Well,” I started, my brain frantically searching for anything that sounded remotely plausible, “we were just—we were discussing—”
From inside the house, there was a muffled THUD.
Then what sounded like something rolling across the floor.
Ms. Rodriguez’s eyes flicked toward the door.
She heard it.
She definitely heard it.
SAY SOMETHING.
“—the traffic!” I said loudly. Too loudly. “The traffic patterns. In the neighborhood. They’re very... patterned.”
What does that even mean?
“They’re very patterned.”
Traffic patterns are, by definition, patterned.
That’s why they’re called patterns.
“The traffic patterns,” Ms. Rodriguez repeated slowly, writing something on her clipboard.
She’s writing down that I’m an idiot.
She’s writing, “Wife appears to have suffered recent head trauma.”