Chapter 16 #2
A month ago, this man was in this very kitchen, moaning my name as he came apart. My, how a single month changes things.
Or maybe it’s just highlighted the lengths I’ll go to in order to feel useful.
I haven’t decided which one it is yet.
Michaela restarts the song and immediately resumes dancing with Archie, who appears to have concluded that resistance is futile and is now willing to be led if there’s a chance of praise at the end of it. I move to the counter mostly so I have something to do with my hands.
I reach for the kettle even though nobody has asked for tea, because boiling water is a respectable activity—and staring at David Kingsley’s forearms while he stands in my kitchen is not.
“Do you have ten minutes?” he asks, low enough that Michaela won’t hear over Stevie and her own choreographic directions.
The warmth in the room shifts. Like furniture being moved to make space for something heavier.
“Possibly,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Is this a legal ten minutes or a real one?”
His mouth twists. “A legal one.”
Of course it is.
I set the kettle down without filling it. “Everything OK?”
Michaela twirls past us with Archie. “We are entering the emotional bridge,” she informs no one in particular. “Archimedes, feel more.”
Archie pants at her with saintly tolerance.
David watches her for a second, then looks back at me. The softness in his face tightens at the edges. Not panic. Not exactly. But concern, sharpened into form.
“No,” he says quietly. “Not exactly.”
My stomach drops. “Is it Kelsie?”
“No. Not directly.” He glances toward the table. “Can we—”
I follow his eyes to the back door. The tiny patch of yard beyond it is fenced, and the early evening is still warm enough to pass for pleasant, if no one gets poetic about it.
“Sweetheart,” I call. “Do you want to take Archie outside and practice your choreography where there’s less chance of a wrongful death suit involving my bar stools?”
Michaela stops mid-spin. “Against whom would the suit be filed?”
“Against me, probably. Homeowner negligence. Emotional distress, et cetera.”
Michaela considers this with the seriousness of a junior associate reviewing case law. “That seems fair.”
“It is,” I say. “Take the speaker with you.”
“Come, Archimedes,” she says, taking the Bluetooth speaker when I hand it to her. “We must workshop your emotional availability.”
Archie follows her dutifully through the back door and out into the yard. A second later I hear, faintly through the glass, “No, with yearning. YEARNING.”
I slide the door mostly shut, leaving it cracked enough to hear if anyone falls into a shrub.
When I turn back, David is already watching me.
It shouldn’t matter that we’re alone. We’ve been alone before.
We’ve stood much closer than this. Been intimately connected, even.
But something about the ordinary familiarity of it—the music, Michaela’s voice in the yard, the lingering smell of cinnamon, carrots, and dog—makes the air feel thinner.
“What happened?” I ask.
He rubs a hand over his jaw. “The initial hearing is next week, and my father wants to use you.”
My spine straightens before I can help it.
“That,” I say after a beat, “is an appallingly phrased sentence.”
His eyes close briefly, like he walked into that one and knows it. “Jesus. Sorry. As a witness.”
“Better.”
“Marginally.”
I fold my arms—not because I’m angry, exactly, but because my body seems to require some kind of structural reinforcement. “OK.”
He leans one hip against the counter opposite me, tie half-undone, sleeves pushed up, looking like a man who has spent the day being reasonable to everyone except himself.
“I told him no,” he says.
Some of the rigidity leaves my shoulders. Not all of it. “That was quick.”
“It wasn’t quick.” His mouth flattens. “It was an argument.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He isn’t wrong to ask. We disclosed the current arrangement as soon as it started. But Kelsie’s lawyers are questioning your involvement.” He glances toward the yard, where Michaela’s voice rises again over Stevie Nicks and the occasional dog huff.
“Lift through the chest, Archimedes. You’re telling a story.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, then settles. “We’ve been careful in the way we’ve framed your commitment. So you’ve become one of the strongest witnesses we have for Michaela’s recent behavioral changes—your education background, involvement in each incident, and the recent extended childcare.”
“OK. And I’m guessing your father likes strong witnesses.”
“My father likes useful ones.”
There’s enough old ache in the sentence that I file it away without touching it. “And you said no to this.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
His eyes come back to mine. “You know why.”
“No. No, David. I don’t know.”
He steps closer. “Yes, you do, Nora. Don’t make me say it.”
I want him to say it. Because hearing him say it and knowing it are two different injuries. But I know the rules. I know where I stand, what my usefulness is. So once again, I give him the out—the answer he isn’t giving.
“Because of the elephant,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”