“Problem?” Alicia asks.
“Maybe. I’ll deal with it.”
I head downstairs to the guest room to grab my laptop. A few minutes later I confirm it’s nothing urgent—just team confirmations for next week’s rotations.
Alicia appears in the doorway. I hadn’t heard her approach.
“Is there anything I can do? To make this go away? To make these people not want to target me? My family?”
That’s the kicker. We still don’t know exactly who these people are.
We’ve got theories. Possibilities. Last week I could’ve convinced myself this was all precaution, that maybe she wasn’t being targeted at all. But someone breached her vehicle. Someone’s tracking her. And the best working theory we’ve got is that somebody doesn’t want Alicia’s documents making it into discovery.
I hesitate, already hating what I’m about to say.
“You could make everything public.”
“I can’t do that to my clients,” she says. “Besides, we don’t know enough.”
Her steel-blue eyes go wild for a second—not with panic exactly, but with the desperate need to be understood. Her shoulders draw back. Her chin lifts. Defiance and fear, side by side.
“I hear you,” I say, because I do.
Then I pull her into me and hold her.
It isn’t much. It isn’t a solution. But it’s what I can give her, so it’s what I do.
By Sunday morning, the house feels hollow, like the echo of last night never really cleared.
Alicia is up before I am. I’m not sure she slept much at all. Last night was the first time we shared a bed without making love, and somehow that felt more intimate than the nights we did. Like we crossed into something quieter and deeper. Less about wanting and more about staying. About being there when there was nothing to offer but your presence.
After coffee, she heads down to her home gym, and I decide to give her some space.
Truth is, I need a little myself.
I step outside to check the carport and call Maya while I walk. It’s been a few weeks since we talked. She’s busy. I get it.
“Hey you,” she says, answering on the second ring.
I huff out a laugh. “Can’t believe I caught you.”
I was half expecting voicemail. Maya’s a pediatric nurse, and keeping up with her schedule is like trying to grab smoke with your hands. If she’s on shift, she doesn’t answer.
“I’m on break. Good timing. Are you home this weekend?”
Ah. She’s assuming that’s why I’m calling.
“You know, New Jersey isn’t my home base anymore, right? I’ve got an apartment outside of DC.”
“I actually didn’t realize that. So when Dad complains you haven’t come home, he means to his place.”
His place. Him and Linda.
“You don’t get the same treatment?”
“Well, I mean, I live in Chicago. A flight is required. It’s different.”
“Maybe.” I’d say it’s more that Maya is his baby girl and can do no wrong, and I’m the son that can do no right, but that’s not a Maya issue. And I didn’t call her to check in on Dad. “What’s up with you? How’re things?”