Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gabriel
The house was... presentable.
Mostly.
My eyes swept the living room in the three seconds it took Ms. Rodriguez to step fully inside, cataloging every detail with the same precision I used to assess a patient’s vitals.
The couch cushions were back in place, but the middle one sat slightly askew, about two inches off-center.
The toy bins were lined up against the wall, but one of them was overflowing.
A stuffed giraffe’s neck bent at an unnatural angle as it tried to escape.
The coffee table gleamed—suspiciously so, like someone had just polished it with enough force to remove the finish.
And there, catching the light from the window, was a faint trail of glitter leading from the dining room toward the stairs.
Fuck.
The glitter was immortal. I’d known it the moment Cate had pulled out that craft kit. Glitter didn’t just disappear. It multiplied, spread, and became part of the molecular structure of your home.
“What a lovely space,” Ms. Rodriguez said, her pen already moving across her clipboard.
“Thank you,” I replied, my hand finding the small of Cate’s back. She was vibrating with tension, her breathing too fast, too shallow. “We’ve worked hard to make it comfortable for Megan.”
And by ‘worked hard,’ I mean ‘four grown men just spent thirty minutes frantically dismantling a craft store explosion while my wife told you about her recurring ninja dream.’
My colleagues were positioned around the room like they’d been strategically placed by a director with a sadistic sense of humor.
Fitz stood by the bookshelf, one hand casually resting on a shelf, trying to look relaxed. His tie was gone, probably used to wipe down something in a panic, and his shirt was untucked on one side. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Nathan was in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, going for “casual friend dropping by” but landing somewhere closer to “exhausted man who just loaded a dishwasher at Olympic speed.” His hair was sticking up at the back.
Hayden sat on the arm of the couch—not even on the actual couch, on the arm, like some kind of furniture-challenged teenager—with what I could only describe as a forced smile. And there, catching the light, was a distinct sparkle in his hair.
Glitter.
He has glitter in his hair.
If Ms. Rodriguez notices…
Julien was the only one who looked relatively composed, standing near the dining room with his hands in his pockets. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept flicking toward the kitchen like he was worried something might explode.
“These are Gabriel’s colleagues,” Cate said, her voice too bright, too loud. “From the clinic. They were just—they were helping with the furniture. The rearranging. That’s what we were doing. For organizational purposes.”
Please stop talking.
Please, for the love of God, stop talking.
“How nice,” Ms. Rodriguez said, making a note. “It’s good to have a support system.”
“Oh, we’re very supportive!” Fitz said, his grin just a touch too wide. “Very... furniture-oriented. Love a good rearrangement.”
I shot him a look that said, “I will end you.”
He coughed, suddenly very interested in the books on the shelf.
“Would you like a tour?” I asked Ms. Rodriguez, my hand still on Cate’s back, feeling her heart racing through her sweater.
“That would be wonderful.”
Here we go.
I guided her toward the kitchen as Cate pressed against my side, practically vibrating with anxiety.
The kitchen was immaculate.
Too immaculate.
The counters gleamed. The sink was empty.
The dish towels were folded with military precision on the counter, something that had never happened in the history of this house.
But the dishwasher was running, its low hum filling the space, and I could see a faint water spot on the floor near the sink that someone had missed.
“You have a beautiful kitchen,” Ms. Rodriguez said, opening a cabinet.
She’s checking the cabinets.
She’s actually checking to see if we have food.
Inside were neatly organized rows of dishes, glasses, and—Is that a mixing bowl on the top shelf? Why is there a mixing bowl with the glasses?
What the hell did they do in here?
“We love to cook,” Cate said, her voice climbing higher.
“Gabriel and I—we cook together. Family meals. Very nutritious. Lots of vegetables. And protein. Balanced meals. The food pyramid. We follow it. Religiously. Well, not religiously, because we’re not religious about food; we’re just—we’re very committed to nutrition.
And the pyramid. The nutritional pyramid.
Which is actually more of a plate now, I think? My plate? Is that still a thing?”
My jaw ticked.
Ms. Rodriguez closed the cabinet and made another note.
What the hell is she writing?
“Wife has concerning relationship with USDA dietary guidelines?”
“And Megan eats well?” Ms. Rodriguez asked.
“Very well,” I said, my voice steady, controlled. “She’s not a picky eater. Cate has been excellent about introducing her to a variety of foods.”
“I make her try one bite of everything!” Cate added. “The one-bite rule. It’s very effective. Scientifically proven. Probably. I haven’t actually read the studies, but it seems like something that would be studied. Food exposure. Palate development. Very important for children.”
Cate.
Breathe.
I squeezed her side gently, a silent message: You’re spiraling.
She took a breath, nodded slightly.
“Let’s see the rest of the house,” Ms. Rodriguez suggested.
We moved through the dining room where the table was suspiciously clear of everything, including the centerpiece that usually sat there, and toward the stairs.
That was when I saw it.
Shoved hastily into the coat closet, the door not quite closed: the corner of a bedsheet. Purple, with butterflies.
The teepee.
They shoved the teepee into the coat closet.
I shifted slightly, positioning myself between Ms. Rodriguez and the closet, and shot a look at Julien.
He saw it. His eyes widened fractionally, then he moved casually toward the closet, leaning against the wall next to it like he’d been planning to stand there all along.
Smooth.
For a neurologist.
“The upstairs has three bedrooms,” I explained, guiding Ms. Rodriguez toward the stairs. “Megan’s room, our room, and a guest room that we use as an office.”
We climbed the stairs, Cate’s hand finding mine, gripping tight enough to cut off circulation.
Behind us, I heard Fitz whisper something to Nathan.
Nathan’s response: a barely suppressed snort.
I’m going to kill them.
I’m going to kill them both.
Slowly.
Megan’s room was perfect because it had been perfect before the chaos started. Her bed was made, her toys organized, her bookshelf neat. The walls were decorated with her drawings, carefully framed.
“This is lovely,” Ms. Rodriguez commented, stepping inside. “Very age-appropriate.”
“I wanted Megan to have a space that felt like hers.”
Ms. Rodriguez made a note, and for the first time, I thought it might be a positive one. “And where is Megan now?”
“Downstairs with—” I started.
“I’M HERE!” Megan’s voice rang out from the hallway.
She appeared in the doorway, grinning, her braids slightly mussed from playing.
Thank God she looks normal.
Thank God she’s not covered in glitter or holding evidence of our disaster.
“Hi!” Megan said brightly. “Are you the lady who’s visiting?”
“I am,” Ms. Rodriguez said, her expression softening slightly. “I’m Ms. Rodriguez. It’s nice to meet you, Megan.”
“It’s nice to meet you too! Do you want to see my room? Cate helped me decorate it. She’s really good at decorating. And cooking. And playing. She’s the best.”
Something in my chest tightened.
She loves her.
Megan really loves her.
“Your room is beautiful,” Ms. Rodriguez said. “Do you like living here?”
“I love it! I have Cate and Daddy, and we do fun things together. Cate took me to the park! And we make dinner together. And Cate reads me stories. She does all the voices.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Ms. Rodriguez said, writing more notes.
Good notes.
Please let those be good notes.
“Cate’s really nice too,” Megan continued, bouncing slightly. “Like when she broke my arm. She cried, and she stayed with me at the hospital the whole time.”
No.
No, no, no.
Not this.
Not now.
I felt Cate go rigid beside me.
Ms. Rodriguez’s pen stopped moving. “She broke your arm?”
“Yeah!” Megan said, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room.
“I fell off the skateboard. It hurt really bad. But Cate was there, and she called Daddy right away, and then we went to the hospital and Daddy fixed it. See!” My daughter smiled, lifting her bedazzled-casted arm for Ms. Rodriguez to see.
Ms. Rodriguez turned to look at us, her expression neutral but her eyes sharp. “When did this happen?”
“A few weeks ago,” I said, my voice calm, controlled, even though I could feel Cate shaking beside me. “It was a clean break of the radius. It’s healing well.”
“I see.” More notes. “And how did the accident occur?”
“She fell,” Cate said, her voice strangled. “She wanted to learn how to surf, but we didn’t have a surfboard. So I went next door and got my skateboard. She was doing great! Total Pro! Olympic Gold Medal contender. Well, when she gets older, I mean—”
“It was an accident,” I interrupted, my hand tightening on hers. “Megan was learning to skateboard and lost her footing. These things happen.”
“But I should have—” Cate started.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said firmly, looking at her, trying to communicate with my eyes: Stop. Breathe. You’re making it worse.
But she wasn’t stopping.