Relief floods my chest so fast my knees nearly buckle.
I snap photos of each document and fire them off, then crouch beside Juan's stroller. The little boy’s face is tear-streaked, his brown, watery eyes wide and uncertain.
Give me fifteen minutes and I'll come down.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, gently brushing his hand. “You want a snack? They have popsicles on the pediatric floor,” I look up at Melissa as I say this, for permission to give him one. She nods.
“Do you like cherry or grape?”
The first glimmer of a smile flickers. “Red.”
“Red it is. I’ll be right back. And when I get back, we’re going to figure something out for you today.”
Melissa wipes her eyes. “Thank you.”
Her humble gratitude hooks into my chest and doesn’t let go.
“Ma’am, who did you text? Is someone really going to help me?”
“The best family law attorney in Palm Beach.” My throat knots, but my voice stays steady. “He specializes in cases exactly like yours.”
I sprint upstairs, snag three cherry popsicles, and hurry back down before they melt. I open one for Juan, and his sticky hand reaches for it immediately. Popsicle, hydration, distraction. Three wins in one.
The door swings open without warning.
Warren strides in, briefcase in hand, his tall frame filling the doorway. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in Melissa, the child, the scattered papers. When his eyes meet mine, something flickers. Not warmth, but purpose.
I’ll take it.
He turns to her. “I’m Warren Carter,” he says, voice steady, professional. “Why don’t you walk me through what’s going on? Let’s see what we can do.”
He settles into the chair across from Melissa, posture relaxed but deliberate. The sharp lines of his suit give him an edge that makes her shrink back, clutching the papers tighter to her chest.
“Mr. Carter handles housing law and family advocacy,” I explain gently, touching Melissa’s arm. “He’s here to help.”
Warren’s eyes flick to mine. It's quick and unreadable, but it's notable. Then, he spreads the documents across the desk with precise, methodical movements. His fingers glide over the pages like he’s arranging puzzle pieces only he can see.
“Can you tell me exactly when you received this notice?” His tone softens just enough, the voice I’ve heard him use with frightened witnesses.
Melissa’s shoulders ease a fraction. “This morning. It was taped to my door when I was leaving for work.”
“And you’ve filed complaints about maintenance?” I ask, recalling the notes I skimmed.
“Three times. The heat went out in January, then black mold in the bathroom, and last month the lock on the back door broke.” Her leg bounces, making the stroller rock. Juan scribbles quietly with a blue crayon that Darcy handed him.
Warren makes notes, so she continues. “It took four weeks to fix the heat, and they still haven’t touched the mold or the lock. I had to shove a dresser in front of the back door.”
Warren nods, his pen moving frantically on his notepad while checking the lease. “That’s textbook retaliation. And this clause—” he taps paragraph six, “—violates tenant protection laws.”
I lean closer, scanning the section he indicates. Our shoulders nearly touch, and the clean scent of his aftershave hits me. The same one from that night. My chest tightens.
“What about emergency housing assistance?” I glance at Darcy. “Can we fast-track her application?”
The next forty-five minutes move in rhythm. Warren cuts through the legal jargon, and I translate it for Melissa. He drafts, I fetch water. When her voice cracks, I steady her. When Juan fusses, I fold a sticky note into a crane and make him laugh.
Our hands brush as we pass papers back and forth. His fingers linger a beat too long before pulling away. I don’t look up. I can’t.
“So we file this counter-notice today,” Warren explains, sliding the completed forms toward Melissa. “Tomorrowmorning, I’ll contact the housing authority. You won’t have to leave your apartment.”