"Next time what?"
"I want to learn the knots."
His hand covers mine where it rests on his chest, over the firefly, over ten years.
"I'll teach you."
twenty-two
Angelina
"Angelina."
Silk and smoke on the other end the phone in my chambers. The voice I hear in nightmares.
My hand locks around the receiver. The desk lamp flickers, or maybe that's my vision. My chambers feel smaller suddenly with the mahogany walls pressing in and the sanctuary I built over five years shrinking to the size of a coffin.
"Don't hang up," Adrian says.
My throat closes, then opens. I force air through vocal cords that want to lock.
Say something. Don't let him hear you fall apart.
"What do you want?"
"To talk. Isn't that what civilized people do?" That reasonable tone. The one he used before the reckless driving, before the hospital, before I almost bled out on a gurney while doctors fought to save our daughter. "You've been difficult to reach."
"I've been working."
"Of course. Your career. Always so important." A pause. That smile in his voice, the pleasant diplomatic mask over the rot underneath. "How is Francesca?"
My hand flies to my collar. Old tell, and an old fear. The St. Christopher medal presses through the silk of my blouse.
"She's fine."
"Good. That's good." Another pause, stretching too long. "I was thinking that joint custody seems reasonable, don't you think? I've missed so much. Eight years, Angelina. Eight years of my daughter's life."
Exhibit A: the reasonable tone. Exhibit B: "good faith contact" language.
This call isn't negotiation. It's establishing a paper trail and building a record of the concerned father denied access.
"No."
"We should discuss this properly. Face to face." His voice drops, intimate, the way it used to before the violence started. "I'll be seeing Francesca soon. One way or another."
The line goes dead.
I don't move. Can't. The dial tone hums in my ear while my heart pounds hard enough to hurt. My hand stays frozen around the receiver like letting go will make this real.
I'll be seeing Francesca soon.
"Angelina."
I flinch so hard the phone clatters against the desk. Cole stands in the doorway, his expression giving nothing away.When did he open it? How long has he been there?
"How much did you hear?"
"Enough." He steps inside, closes the door behind him. Locks it. The click sounds too loud. "He's making his move."