I hate that I looked away first.
It's bedtime and Chesca's in her current favorite pajamas, the purple ones with cats. Her teeth are brushed and I've tucked under the constellation comforter she picked out herself. I sit on the edge of her bed, smoothing hair from her forehead, and breathing in the lavender scent of her shampoo.
This is what matters. This is what I'm protecting.
"Mommy?
"Mm?"
"Is Cole going to stay forever?"
I stop breathing for a moment.
"No, piccola." I keep my voice gentle and steady. "Just for a little while."
"Why?"
Because someone might be trying to hurt me and I can't protect you alone. Because I'm terrified and exhausted and I don't know what else to do.
"Because sometimes grown-ups need help with things. Like you need help with your subtraction homework."
She considers this with eight-year-old gravity. "I like him. He's funny."
He's dangerous."He's here to help."
Her eyes flutter. "Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"That man is the pigeon man."
Everything stops.
"What?"
"I just remembered. From the park." Another yawn, longer this time. She's fading fast. "By school. Sometimes he sits on the bench and feeds the pigeons. He's really nice to them and they're getting really fat." A sleepy giggle. "Like little balloons with feet..."
Her voice trails off and her breathing evens out.
I stare at her. At the nightlight casting butterfly shadows across her ceiling. At the constellation comforter and the stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm.
My hand shakes when I pull it back from her forehead.
He sits on the bench. He feeds the pigeons. He watches my daughter smile at him like he's safe.
For how long?
I stand. My legs feel strange. Disconnected from my body.
How long has he been watching her? How long has he been watching us?
I walk out of her room on autopilot, pulling the door to the angle she prefers.
Cole is in the hallway.
Of course he is.
He stands at the top of the stairs, expression unreadable, like he's been waiting for me. Like he knew this moment was coming.