“Ten years, Christine. He’s barely?—”
“Are you looking for a husband?”
“No.”
“Then have fun! When can I meet him?”
“Saturday brunch? Stella has a sleepover Friday.”
“Perfect. And Alicia? Breathe. You deserve this.”
The call ends as I pull into the office parking lot. Will I introduce Noah to Christine? Maybe. It’s a big step—introducing him to friends. And what if this becomes something that isn’t temporary? What would Christine think then?
I glance in the rearview, spotting Noah’s car, and despite the anxiety coiled in my chest, I’m smiling.
Until I see Gabriel waiting outside like a sentinel, and the smile dies.
I check the ground, looking for cigarette butts to see if he’s been outside smoking, but no, it appears he’s outside awaiting the official handoff.
I’m a baton. And I’m developing a teen-like crush on one of the runners, evident by the fluttering in my belly as I watch Noah’s SUV pull into traffic after dutifully following me to the office.
Thankfully, once I’m through the door, my client problems take over my own. Their mistakes become my coaching opportunities. Denial, sometimes a powerful resource, is often my clients’ worst enemy. It makes for an interesting day, and one that makes me feel more like a therapist than a crisis management expert.
My two o’clock meeting runs fifteen minutes over, and as soon as the call ends, I’m up and gathering my work to head to the school to pick up Stella. There’s a rap on the door, and I call, “Come in.”
Robert, my assistant, appears in the doorway. Something’s off—his shoulders are too rigid, his usual easy smile replaced with careful neutrality. “I know, I’m running late,” I say, already gathering my things.
“There’s a detective here to see you.” His voice is quieter than usual. “I told him you need to pick up Stella, but he said it’s important.”
A detective? I peer past Robert and spot the detective waiting a couple of feet away, standing near, likely so he can hear what Robert says to me.
“It’s okay, Robert. I’m sure this has to do with the incident at the conference.”
Robert nods and backs away, returning to his desk in the lobby.
“Detective,” I say, hand outstretched. I squint to read the name that’s pinned to his shirt. He’s a Black man, about Noah’s height, but broader in both his shoulders and midsection.
“Ms. Morgan. Thank you for seeing me. I’m Detective Lassiter.”
“We didn’t meet before.”
“No, I’m in the homicide unit,” he says, his tone deliberately friendly. “I was hoping you could come down to the precinct to answer some questions.”
“I…” I swivel, looking at my desk and my tote resting in my chair. “I need to pick up my daughter. Perhaps I could schedule a time?—”
“We’d appreciate your cooperation. As you can imagine, this is a high-profile case and we’d like to wrap it up as quickly as possible.”
“Right.” I nod, thinking through my options. They did say they might have more questions. I’ve coached plenty of clients that it’s best to avoid the appearance of guilt. And, as inconvenient as this is, I have nothing to hide. “Well, let me see if I can make arrangements.”
I pick up my cell and call Trish, one of Stella’s friends’ moms, and a friend. She quickly agrees to pick up Stella from school.
“This shouldn’t take long. Tell Stella I’ll be there soon. I haven’t forgotten that we’re going shopping.”
My gaze connects with Detective Lassiter’s and he offers a slight smile. At least, I interpret it as a smile.
Gabriel appears by the reception desk, expression tight. “I’ll call Noah. Want me to?—”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just questions.”