"Then I'll defer to her expertise."
"Defer means—"
"He knows what it means, piccola." I set down my coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Get your backpack. We leave in ten minutes."
She scampers off, and I'm left alone with Cole in my kitchen. The silence feels different now. Less hostile, more... weighted. Like we're both aware of how normal it could look to anyone peering through the window.
It's not normal. None of this is normal.
I start gathering my things for court, trying to ignore the way he watches me move through my own kitchen. The way his presence fills the space without him doing anything at all.
We're halfway down the front steps when Chesca stops dead.
"Wait." She tugs my hand, nearly pulling me off balance. "My booster seat's in Nonna's car."
I open my mouth to tell Cole we'll take my vehicle instead, but he's already at the black SUV, opening the rear door.
Inside, strapped into place, is a purple booster seat.
Not lavender. Not violet or "close enough". The exact shade of purple Chesca picked out for her bedroom walls two years ago. The color she refers to as "my purple" like it belongs to her personally.
"Is that for me?"
Chesca breaks away before I can stop her, running to the SUV with the complete trust of a child who hasn't learned yet that the world will hurt her. She climbs in, settles into the seat, runs her fingers over the fabric with wonder.
"It's purple! Mommy, look, it's my purple!"
My stomach drops.
I always know where you are.Hisvoice is in my head. The tracking app. The smile when I found it.
No. Stop. Cole isn't him. He isn't—
But the knowledge sits in my chest like a stone.How did you know her exact color? How long have you been watching my daughter? How much do you know?
Cole stands by the open door, watching me. Expression giving nothing away.
"California law," he says. "She's eight. Requires a booster until four-foot-nine or eighty pounds."
"How did you know the color?"
The question comes out accusatory. Chesca's too busy examining her new seat to notice, but Cole's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"California law," he repeats
That's not an answer. That's not even close to an answer.
But Chesca's already buckling herself in, chattering about how it matches her room and asking if she can keep it forever, and I can't ask more questions in front of her.
I get in the car.
The drive to school passes in a blur of Chesca's questions and Cole's sparse answers. Favorite color? Gray, apparently. Favorite animal? He doesn't have one. Does he like dinosaurs? He respects them.
Respects them.Who says that? Who talks to an eight-year-old about respecting dinosaurs?
But Chesca giggles, delighted by the strange answer, and something complicated twists in my chest.
She likes him.