“Mom—I got a phone! Dad took me to the Apple Store!” She bubbles out of the car, practically bouncing, but halfway to me she slows, eyes flicking between our faces. She’s too perceptive to barrel through tension like it isn’t there. “Mom? Are you mad about it?”
Richard’s glare is threatening. I swallow—this isn’t the time to fight this battle.
“No, hon. Surprised, but not angry.”
“Stella, go inside and pack your bag. I need to talk with your mother.”
“Pack your bag?” My voice sharpens. I want him to hear exactly how little sense that makes.
“I explained you have a lot going on this week,” Richard says, voice clipped, the strength of his tone brooking no room for argument. “She’ll stay with me. Until you’ve got more bandwidth.”
His plan is to lie to her? And to hope she doesn’t find out from someone else? I open my mouth—breathe. “Stella, why don’t you head in. I’ll come talk to you upstairs.”
“You didn’t know,” Stella says, looking at her dad with eyes that question—because whether he wants to admit it or not, she’s not the little kid who accepts everything he says without question. His plan isn’t going to work. “What’s going on? I knew it was weird that you’d be too busy for me.”
“I’m never too busy for you.” I pin Richard with a look sharp enough to stab. If he’s going to lie to her, he needs to learn how to do it better. “But I do need to speak with you—and it may be best if you go to your father’s for a few days.”
This isn’t how I would handle it, but I will grant Richard that I don’t know how my next few days will go, and along with my workload for my company, I also need to manage working with my defense team. Hopefully I’ll stay out of the press’s eye—I’m not a public figure. I just often work with public figures—but I work with them enough that it won’t be shocking if a reporter recognizes my name and wants to explore a story.
Stella surprises me by wrapping her arms around me and looking up, concerned. “You’re not sick or anything, are you?”
Jesus, Richard. My heart punches my ribs. That’s where her mind goes first—illness, not headlines.
“No honey,” I say, rubbing the side of her face, then bending to kiss her head. I pop her on her butt. “Head on inside. I’ll be there in a minute, and I promise you I’ll explain everything.”
She’s slower, but she’s got her phone in her hand, and by the time she’s at the front door, she’s looking at the screen.
She steps into the house, leaving the door cracked open, and I start to yell after her to close it, but don’t. Richard’s scowl rakes over me and I can’t tell if he’s royally pissed or if there’s a degree of concern.
“I didn’t do it,” I say—half wondering if his anger stems from a belief I would do something like that and put our daughter’s life in a vise from the repercussions.
“I know,” he says after a beat, jaw tight. “But you did have an affair.”
We stand there, a wall of cold silent accusations between us. I don’t need to ask when he learned about the murder charge, or even what he knows. He’s a lawyer—he has friends. It’s the same way I had a heads up about a warrant for my arrest being issued. It’s the same way I have an idea about what evidence they believe they have—the detectives aren’t tight-lipped. Or hell, maybe it’s someone on the prosecutor’s team.
“I had an affair too,” he says, and there it is—the card he’s been holding. For a moment I just stare at him, then the truth slips out, simple and bare.
“I know.” We never weaponized it in therapy. Maybe because I was guilty too.
His gaze lifts to the sky, then back at me. “I always loved you.”
The words knock the breath out of me—that’s the last thing I expected from Richard today. We agreed once that we’d always care, that we weren’t in love. Now, with murder charges hanging over my head, he chooses “always loved.”
I look up at him—really look at him. Does he want to go into this right now? We said as much in painful couples therapy sessions. Of course, as painful as those sessions may have been, neither of us told the whole truth.
A Rivian pulls up to the curb and parks. Jessica hops out, but pauses, her gaze flitting between Richard and me.
“What are you doing here?” Richard asks, sounding almost as angry at her as he is at me.
“I thought I might be able to help,” she says, heels ticking over the walk. When she reaches him, her hand glides over his arm. “I wanted to be here for you, baby.”
I step back, giving them their moment.
“I also wanted to let you know I spoke to Jamison about expedited custody procedures?—”
“What?” The word whips out of me, sharp enough that even I flinch.
Yes, I flinch, but I won’t back down. Not on this.