"Promise?"
"I promise."
She considers this, then tugs my hand closer. I lean in, and she wraps her arms around my neck in a hug that is already half-asleep.
"Night, Cole."
"Goodnight, hime."
I ease back. Her eyes are already closed, her breathing evening out.
Angelina's hand finds mine. We leave together, door cracked, nightlight casting soft pink across the carpet.
The hallway is quiet. Our breathing. The distant hum of the air conditioning. The house settling around us.
"She loves you," Angelina says.
The words land somewhere between my ribs and stay there. No words for what it means that this child—her child—reaches for me in the dark.
My hand tightens around Angelina's. She does not ask me to say anything. Just walks with me to our bedroom.
I check the windows out of habit. Locks engaged, curtains drawn, sight lines clear. I will never stop doing this. She knows it now. Does not comment.
I retrieve the folder from the hallway. Set it on the dresser.
"Cole."
I turn. Angelina is standing by the bed, arms wrapped around herself, watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
"What is in the folder?"
I should have hidden it. Should have waited until morning, until she had slept, until she had had time to decompress. But she asked, and I have never been able to lie to her.
Open it.
"Sit down."
She does not argue. Sinks onto the edge of the bed, her posture rigid.
I hand her the first photo.
She goes still.
It is her, courthouse steps, early morning, coffee cup in hand. Timestamp from three weeks ago. She is wearing the navy suit, the one she wore to the DeLuca hearing.
I hand her the next one. Same location, different day. Then the coffee shop. The parking structure. Her car. Her walking path from the lot to the courthouse entrance.
Her hands don't shake. The judge mask holds.
Then I hand her the photos of Chesca.
The sound she makes is not a word. Not even a cry. Something lower. The sound a mother makes when her child is threatened.
School entrance. Chesca's small figure captured mid-stride, backpack bouncing. Playground. She is on the swings, head thrown back in laughter. Walking with Xander, the shot taken from across the street, telephoto lens, professional framing.
"They were—" Angelina's voice cracks. She clears her throat, tries again. "They were watching her. This whole time."
"Yes."