Cazzo. She likes him already, and he's been here less than four hours, and I don't know if that makes me want to scream or cry or both.
At drop-off, I walk her to the gate like always. Kiss her forehead. Watch her disappear into the crowd of backpacks and lunchboxes, her purple backpack bobbing until I can't see it anymore..
When I turn around, Cole is leaning against the SUV, scanning the parking lot with quiet vigilance that should be comforting and instead makes me want to shake him until answers fall out.
Other parents glance at him. Look away. Something in his stillness warns them off.
"She's smart," he says when I return.
"I know."
"She asked if I was your boyfriend."
My step falters. "What did you tell her?"
"That I'm here to keep you both safe." His dark eyes meet mine. "Nothing more."
Nothing more.The words should reassure me. They don't.
"We need to talk about that booster seat."
"After court." It's not a question.
"You said tomorrow." I keep my voice low enough that the other parents won't hear. "It's tomorrow. Where's my briefing?"
Cole's eyes stay on me. "We're still awaiting confirmation."
"Confirmation of what?"
A pause. Too long. "That you're a target."
The word lands like a stone in my chest.Target.
"A target of what? The sedan?"
"The sedan is surveillance. Someone watching you." His jaw tightens. "The question is why. And whether it connects to something larger."
"Something larger." I hate how my voice sounds, thin and reedy. "That's not an answer."
"It's what I have right now. When we know more, you'll know more."
I want to argue. Want to demand answers right here in the school parking lot with parents streaming past us and my daughter's laughter still echoing in my ears.
But I'm due in court in forty-seven minutes, and Judge Castellano doesn't show up late. Judge Castellano doesn't let personal chaos bleed into professional duty.
Judge Castellano is a mask I've worn so long sometimes I forget there's anything underneath.
The conversation dies, and I get in the car without another word. But the word stays lodged beneath my ribs like a splinter.
Target.
The elevator at the Federal Courthouse is packed.
Nine other people. Ten with Cole pressed against my back. The doors slide shut and the car lurches upward, and suddenly there's not enough air, not enough space, not enough—
Breathe. Breathe, tesoro. Count the floors.
Someone shifts. An elbow catches my ribs.