Sustained

  she disappears. I’m working late, Chelsea is helping Riley with her homework, and the rest of the kids are scattered around the house . . . doing what kids do. When it’s time to start getting ready for bed, that’s when Chelsea notices the little blonde is missing. They call her name, comb through the bedrooms, the closet, the playhouse in the backyard, the fucking swimming pool and garden. Chelsea calls the neighbors and they check their backyards too.

  By the time she stops searching to call me, she’s a mess of frantic tears, ready to call the police and the national guard. In the car, driving to the house, I’m the one who asks if they checked the third floor—Robert and Rachel’s room.

  In a breathless rush, Chelsea says they didn’t—and she bolts up the stairs. There, curled up on the floor of the walk-in closet, wrapped in her mother’s robe, is Rosaleen, fast asleep. I get to the house a few minutes after the discovery, when Chelsea is still teary-eyed and shaking. Rosaleen feels bad but says she likes to go into her mother’s closet sometimes. To remember what she smelled like.

  The explanation makes Chelsea cry more. And just about breaks my fucking heart too.

  After an unusually long bedtime, when Chelsea can’t seem to pry herself away from her niece’s doorway, I broach the subject of the bedroom. It’s been months since Robert and Rachel died, and the room stands exactly as it did before.

  I don’t know much about grieving—I know even less about kids—but it doesn’t seem . . . healthy to me. Chelsea is adamant—she claims the kids aren’t ready for the change, to have their parents’ most personal things boxed up and relocated. Or worse, given away. But I don’t think it’s the kids who aren’t ready.

  I think it’s her.

  She shoots the topic down, refuses to discuss it. And when those gorgeous eyes turn icy, I let it drop. Because it isn’t really any of my business, so it isn’t worth an argument.

  • • •

  Late on the Wednesday afternoon after Rosaleen’s Houdini imitation, Chelsea calls me at the office. “Are you free?”

  “Depends. What do you have in mind?” I say, my tone weighted with suggestion about what’s exactly in my mind. It’s right along the lines of what’s in my pants.

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” Chelsea sighs. “I’m on my way to pick up Raymond at school.”

  I check my watch. “Shouldn’t he be home already?”

  “He should be, but they kept him after. Apparently he got into a fight.”

  A smile slides onto my lips. “Did he win?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Ah . . . the only one that matters?”

  She chuckles. “I don’t know if he won. Principal Janovich would like to see me in his office to discuss it. Do you want to meet me there? I have a feeling your lawyering may come in handy.”

  And I have a feeling she’s right.

  “I’m packing up now—I’ll meet you there.”

  By the time I arrive at the ivy-covered grounds of Raymond’s private school, the meeting is already under way. A secretary ushers me into a large office, where a dignified, gray-haired man sits behind a presidential desk—awards and accolades line the walls, and dark wood bookshelves are filled with important-looking, gold-leafed, thick leather volumes.

  Chelsea sits on the opposite side, an empty chair between her and two very wealthy-looking—very pissed-off-looking—parents. The woman is blond, in a royal-blue suit and pearls, with long bloodred fingernails. The husband looks quieter, smaller—the remora to her shark.

  “And you are?” the gray-haired guy—Principal Janovich—drones.

  I hand him my card. “Jake Becker. I’m the family attorney.”

  The blonde raises one scathing eyebrow. “I’m an attorney as well,” she tells me—like it’s a warning.

  “I thought you might be,” I volley back.

  Takes one to know one.

  I sit beside Chelsea. She looks nervous, hands clasped on her lap tightly. “Where were we?”

  “They want to expel Raymond,” she says in a strained voice.

  I lean back and nod. “Interesting.”

  Janovich clears his throat uncomfortably. “We have a zero-tolerance policy here for fighting, harassment of any kind. Raymond injured his classmate gravely.”

  “Did he break his nose?” I ask casually.

  The principal is a bit taken aback. “No . . .”

  Too bad—better luck next time, kid.

  “. . . but there was excessive bleeding. It was a frightening experience for all involved.”

  Unable to stay silent any longer, the blond mother rises to her feet. “I do not pay thirty thousand dollars a year in tuition to have my child assaulted in the hallways. I demand this . . . delinquent be brought up on charges!”

  “Let’s pull the tapes,” I suggest.

  “The tapes?” Janovich asks, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

  “The tapes.” I nod. “I passed no less than nine hallway security cameras on my way in. There must be video of the altercation. And since it just occurred hours ago, surely the footage couldn’t have been recycled already.”

  The principal’s eyes widen—and I almost expect him to say, Don’t call me Shirley.

  “Unless . . . you’ve already seen the footage?” I narrow my eyes. “I see what’s going on now.” And it fucking pisses me off.

  They won’t like me pissed off.

  “What do you think you see, Mr. Becker?”

  I address the blond viper. “You’re booster club people, aren’t you? Patrons? You donate money to the school on top of that thirty grand—for libraries, new wings, and things like that?”

  The father at last finds his voice. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with this.”

  My eyes swing back to the old man behind the desk. “It has everything to do with this is because Mr. Janovich here thought it’d be easier to hang this whole thing on Raymond—who has a legal guardian who may be too busy to put up a fight—rather than ruffle a benefactor’s feathers. Is that accurate?”

  “It most certainly is not!” he chokes out. “I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.”

  He fiddles with his tie. “I have viewed the footage Mr. Becker is referring to. Although behavior on both sides was less than exemplary, I feel given the violence of Raymond’s assault, he does warrant harsher punishment.”

  And now I’m laughing. “So because Raymond is the better fighter, you’re gonna come down harder on him?”

  He starts to speak, but I wave him off. “Let’s put a tack in that for now and discuss your ‘zero-tolerance’ policy. Where was that policy when Raymond was being bullied since January?”

  Chelsea’s head turns sharply to me. “What?”

  I keep my focus on the principal, and my voice is deadly calm. “I have it on good authority that Jeremy has punched, pushed, tripped, and demeaned Raymond numerous times. Either you’ve chosen to ignore those instances, or you don’t know what’s going on in your building, Mr. Janovich. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for you.”

  His face goes red, but I don’t let up. I lean forward. “And let me be perfectly clear on this point: if there are any further instances of harassment in any form against Raymond McQuaid from this day on, I will sue the ever-loving hell out of this school and you personally.” I tilt my head toward Chelsea. “By the time I’m done with you, she will own every building on these grounds—and your house.” I pin him to the wall with my stare. “I don’t make threats often, Mr. Janovich, and when I do . . . they are never idle.”

  I turn my head to the seething blond shark. “That goes for you and your son, too.”

  And the seething turns to a full boil. “You wait just a damn minute! My son is the victim here! He was—”

  “Lady, I hate to break it to you, but your son is a mean-spirited little shit who enjoys lording it over those who are weaker—and smarter—than him. And it stops toda
y.”

  She stands up. “Jeremy would never do such a thing!”

  Oh boy—she’s one of those. I see a lot of parents like this in my line of work: people with selectively blind not-my-angel syndrome.

  “And if Raymond McQuaid said he did, then he is a filthy, disgusting little liar!”

  And now Chelsea is on her feet, too. “I’m not going to listen to you call my nephew names. He is kind and thoughtful, and if your son hurt him in any way—”

  She gets in Chelsea’s face. “Perhaps if your brother had been a better father, he wouldn’t have a son who acts like an animal!”

  The breath rushes from Chelsea’s body. And her face goes white. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me! Instead of going out and getting himself splattered across the highway, maybe he should have stayed home and—”

  I’ve heard the expression Fathers will die for their children; mothers will kill for them. But I’ve never fully understood it until this moment. Gone is the sweet, smiling woman I know, and in her place is a scrappy cage fighter gunning for the Hulk.

  It’s hot.

  “Fuck you, you mean cunt!”

  “Chelsea!” I yell, totally astounded.

  I get to my feet and grab her arm, just as she moves to take a swing at the blonde. She struggles to get out of my grip as I push her behind me.

  “I’ll shove those pearls down your throat, you miserable bitch!”

  And the miserable bitch isn’t taking it quietly either.

  “No, you little whore, fuck you! I will end you!” Her husband valiantly tries to hold her back.

  Chelsea grabs for her, almost making it past me. “I’ll break your face, you plastic-surgery-addicted freak!”

  This may be getting out of control. So I pick Chelsea up and throw her over my shoulder, legs kicking and cursing a blue streak into my back as I hold on to her with one arm.

  “We’ll take a one-day suspension,” I tell the principal. “As long as Jeremy gets the same.”

  “Done,” Janovich agrees, more eager than anyone to get us the hell out of his office.

  I keep Chelsea out of the screeching hag’s reach. “Good luck with that, man,” I tell her husband, and walk out the door.

  In two chairs lined up against the hallway wall sit Raymond and—judging by the bloody rag held against his nose—the ginger-haired Jeremy.

  “Nice face,” I tell Carrot Top. Then to Raymond, “Let’s go.”

  Raymond stares aghast at the still-raving woman hanging down my back. “What’s wrong with Aunt Chelsea?”

  “Oh . . . ,” I say, trying to play it off, as we walk down the hall, “she’s just lost her mind a little bit.”

  • • •

  By the time we make it out to the parking lot, Chelsea is a little quieter—slightly calmer. “Put me down, Jake! Right now—I mean it.”

  I set her on her feet.

  And she proceeds to walk around me, right back toward the school.

  I plant myself in front of her. “A, I’ve already spent countless unbillable hours keeping members of your family out of jail.”

  She marches forward, undeterred. I cut her off again. “B, CFSA will not look kindly on you assaulting the mother of your nephew’s classmate at his school.”

  That does the trick. Chelsea looks up at me, eyes blazing with fury . . . and pain. “That woman is a heartless bitch!”

  I move in closer, my voice dropping. “I couldn’t agree more. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” I rub her shoulder. “Are you good with that?”

  Her breathing starts to level off. And she looks more like the noncrazy version of herself. “Yeah. I’m okay now.”

  She turns around and heads toward her car, where Raymond stands. Her finger points at him. “You should’ve told me, Raymond!”

  “I didn’t want to make it worse,” he says.

  “I love you! It’s my job to protect you and I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me when someone is hurting you!”

  “I told Jake,” Raymond yells, gesturing to me. “And he helped me. Everything will be better now.”

  Chelsea looks at me sharply. Unhappily. And I get the distinct impression things won’t exactly be better for me.

  She takes a deep breath. “Okay. We have to pick up the other kids. Let’s talk about this at home.”

  Chelsea is rigid and silent on the drive home. She walks over to the neighbor’s house and thanks them for keeping an eye on the other kids. As they scatter inside the house, she frowns. “I need to talk to you in the kitchen, Jake. Now.”

  As soon as we’re through the kitchen door, she turns on me. “How could you not tell me what was happening with Raymond?”

  I really don’t understand why this is such a big deal with her.

  “He asked me not to.”

  Her arms swing out from her sides. “Two days ago, Rosaleen asked me to dye her hair three different colors! We don’t always have to do what they ask us! I thought I could depend on you—we’re supposed to be a team, Jake!”

  I don’t know if it’s the fact that she’s yelling at me or the totally unrecognizable state that is now my life—but I start to get pissed.

  “What does that mean?”

  “What do you mean, what does that mean? It’s us against them—I’m already outnumbered; you’re supposed to be on my side.”

  Then she looks at my face. And her beautiful eyes cloud over.

  With uncertainty. Doubt.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Feelings of responsibility for all of them sit on my back like a bank vault. Of obligation and baggage—all the things I swore I’d never get mixed up in. And now she’s giving me shit? What the hell more does she want from me? Christ, isn’t it enough that I think about her—them—all the time? That I’m totally distracted? I go into work late and leave early at the drop of a hat, just to see them sooner.

  For fuck’s sake it’s . . . it’s . . . terrifying.

  I point to my chest. My words come out clipped and biting. “The only side I’m on is my own.” I rub my hand over my face. “Don’t get me wrong—you’re a good time and the kids are a trip, but I’m not Mr. fucking Mom here, Chelsea. This is not my life. I have priorities and plans that, believe it or not, have nothing to do with anyone in this house.”

  I breathe hard after the words are out.

  And Chelsea is . . . silent. Unusually still for several seconds. Then, without looking at me, she all but whispers, “My mistake. Thank you for clarifying that.”

  She turns away stiffly and starts to take vegetables out of the refrigerator for dinner. As the quiet stretches, I think about my words and how . . . harsh they sounded.

  I step toward her. “Chelsea, look, I—”

  “Hey, Jake, you want to play Xbox?” Rory asks, sliding into the room.

  Finally, Chelsea looks up and I see her eyes. They swim with hurt, shine with pain. And a terrible pressure squeezes my chest.

  “Jake can’t play right now, Rory. He has to go back to his side of the field.”

  Rory’s eyebrows draw together. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

  She may have been talking to Rory, but she was speaking to me.

  “Rory, go in the other room,” I tell him, my eyes squarely on his aunt.

  Miraculously, he does what I ask. And when he’s gone I snap. “Are you seriously gonna pull that shit? Put them in the middle? Holding them over my head?” My finger points hard. “That’s fucked up, Chelsea.”

  She comes at me, eyes blazing. “I would never put them between us. Besides, there would have to be an ‘us’ in the first place, and according to you, there’s not! And me not wanting you around Rory right now has nothing to do with this discussion and everything to do with you acting like a dick!”

  From the other room, Rosaleen says, “Oooh . . . Aunt Chelsea called Jake the D-word!”

  Rory’s voice carries into the kitchen. “Dipshit?”

  “No
.”

  “Dumbass?”

  “No.”

  “Douchebag?”

  “What’s a douchebag?”

  “Rory!” Chelsea and I yell at exactly the same time.

  Our gazes hold and clash, neither giving an inch.

  “Maybe I should just go.”

  It’s not a question, but she answers anyway. “I think that would be best.”

  I’m the one who brought it up, so there’s no fucking reason her words should leave me feeling cold inside. Hollow. But they do.

  Without another word, I turn and walk out the door.

  19

  Thursday starts off shitty and goes straight to hell from there. It’s raining, and my morning run is crap because I had a terrible night’s sleep. No matter how many times I punched the hell out of my pillow, I couldn’t get comfortable. I’m late getting into the office because some moron who didn’t know how to drive in the rain slammed his car into a telephone pole, backing up traffic to East fucking Jabip. Then, an hour after I finally get settled at my desk to start working through a pile of files taller than I am, I end up spilling hot coffee on my favorite shirt.

  “Goddamn fucking shit!”

  Stanton swivels around in his chair from his desk on the other side of the office we share.

  “Problem?”

  I rub at the stain on my chest with a napkin, trying to murder it. “I spilled my coffee.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Did somebody piss in it first? You’ve been barking all morning. You even snapped at Mrs. Higgens—and she’s as close to a saint as I’ve ever seen.”

  I shake my head, not in the mood to share. “Just a bad day.”

  He goes back to reading the document in his hands. “And it’s only just begun.”

  Fucking tell me about it.

  • • •

  I don’t hear from Chelsea all morning, not that I expect to. And I don’t think about her. Not the anger frozen on her face or the hurt in her eyes the last time I saw her. Not her plump lips that kiss so softly, smile so easily, and laugh so enchantingly. I don’t think about the kids either—not Riley’s wisely perceptive look or Raymond’s kind questions. I don’t think about Rory’s smartass smirk or Rosaleen’s giggle. Not Regan’s sweet voice or Ronan’s drooling grin.

  I refuse to think of any of them—at all.

  • • •

  After a quiet lunch with Sofia and Stanton—Brent was stuck in court—I sit down at my desk and bury myself in case files for two hours. And then there’s a commotion outside my office. Raised voices and Mrs. Higgens saying I can’t be disturbed without an appointment. For a crazy split second I think maybe it’s