Half a second. That's all we get.
Because his hand finds his phone, the smile fades, and whatever he reads there pulls his expression shut.
"Kade's pulling Oyelaran's case files." His voice is clipped now. The man behind the glass again. "Looking for overlap with your docket."
My docket. My countdown.
I sit behind my desk and open the DeLuca file. The lines blur, then sharpen into witness depositions and evidence logs and trial schedules. The machinery of justice grinding forward because it doesn't stop for fear. Doesn't pause for dead colleagues or flowers with numbers attached or the sound of my own heart beating too fast.
Cole leans against the wall by the window, silent and present. His attention is on his phone now: my house, my daughter's school, the street outside this building. Keeping the perimeter while I try to do my job.
Eight judges dead. Seventeen days left. A philanthropist who knows too much and a pharmaceutical witness getting too close to Cole.
And a man by the window who told me I'm the only thing he's ever actually looking at.
I don't know which one scares me more. The countdown or how much I needed those thirty seconds of banter to feel like the world wasn't ending.
I open the file. Start reading. Don't look up.
Seventeen days.
nineteen
Angelina
The smell of coffee hits me before I'm through the doorway.
Morning light spills through the kitchen windows, catching the steam rising from the pot.Cole stands at the stove, but he's not alone. Chesca has pulled a chair over and stands beside him, wooden spoon clutched in both hands like a sacred object.
"Slower." Cole's hand covers hers, guiding the motion through the eggs. "You feel how they're starting to set at the edges? That's when you fold. Gently."
"Like this?" She drags the spoon through with exaggerated care.
"Exactly like that."
Her whole face lights up, that smile she saves for moments when something clicks. "Mamma never lets me help cook."
The St. Christopher medal presses cold through my shirt. Three hours of sleep last night, maybe four. Two more judges added to the death count since Tuesday. And my daughter stands at the stove like the world isn't burning down around us.
Give her normal. That's your job. Give her normal even when nothing is.
"Mamma just doesn't have time to teach you properly." I lean against the doorframe, watching them. "Mamma's eggs come out of a carton most days."
"They're rubbery," Chesca announces, still stirring with Cole's hand guiding hers.
"Traitor."
She giggles, and Cole's mouth curves into an actual smile. Rare and unguarded, the kind that transforms his whole face when he forgets to keep his walls up.
Something tight in my chest loosens just a little.
Two weeks ago I was scrambling to get dinner on the table after twelve-hour days. Now there's coffee waiting and someone teaching my daughter to cook like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Don't get used to this. Don't let her get used to this. He could leave. People leave.
"Almost done." Cole removes his hand, lets her finish alone. "Now we turn off the heat and let them sit. The pan stays hot, so they'll finish cooking without getting overdone."
Chesca nods solemnly, like he's imparting state secrets.
