“Sure. I don’t care, man. You’re welcome to tag along.” His marriage is not a concern of mine. We leave personal problems where they belong, and I told him this the same day he started.
I work. I get the job done. I move on and repeat.
“I’m just going to ring her real quick and make sure she doesn’t mind,” Davey says. With his fire-engine red hair and purple coloring on his face from overexertion, he paces back and forth, waiting for his wife to pick up the call.
Lord, help me if I’m ever afraid of a woman like Davey is of his wife.
“Sure, babe. I’ll pick that up on the way home. No problem. Okay, I love you too.” He grins and turns around, scratching behind his ear like a puppy.
Women.
“I can go,” Davey says, sounding relieved as he drops his phone into his back pocket.
“I’m glad mommy agreed,” I tease.
“Screw you.” He flips me off and grabs one of the toolboxes from the bed of my truck.
“Please don’t. Instead, why don’t you finish capping off the ridge while I continue cleaning this mess up.”
Five o’clock on the dot, a check in hand, and Mrs. Dunn is giving me a tight hug as if I just called her Mom. “Thank you for putting up with me,” she says. “It’s been years since my Roger died, and I haven’t had to do a lot to the house since then. He’s the one who would have taken care of all this nonsense, but now it’s just me.”
Mrs. Dunn forces a smile through her evident pain, and a bite of guilt zings through me like ice. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s life,” she replies, her face stone-cold and emotionless.
Chapter Eight
August
It doesn’t matterhow hard I try to put on a brave face when a convicted man walks through my door, looking to see their displaced child. Why do they care so much now but didn’t think twice about committing a crime that would break up their family?
There is no way to make this kind of wrong right, and no matter how many tears these adults shed, I have no compassion for them. But my heart breaks for the children.
A sheriff escorted William’s dad out of the building, and now I have two little chestnut brown eyes staring at me with a look of utter sadness. “He’s not coming back like he said, is he?” William asks.
I place my hands down slowly, resting them on top of the manilla folder containing his case file. “I don’t know the answer to that question, William. Anything can happen. We just need to wait and see. That’s what we say, right?”
“Yes, Miss Taylor.”
William drops his head, and his folded hands squeeze together, forcing his blood to run thin through his knuckles. He nods his head, his hair gently swaying back and forth along his forehead. A sniffle works through his nose, and he lifts his head back up to face me. “Thank you for letting him visit me.”
William is seven, speaking like an eleven-year-old who has been through more than most adults. “Of course,” I respond. “William, I know this may not mean much, but keep your head up. Life has a way of working itself out, and sometimes in unexpected ways.” It’s my standard statement, which feels like it has gotten old now. I should take my advice.
William shakes his head, appearing to understand what I’ve said. He stands from his seat, clenching his fists by his side, and holds his head up straight before walking out of my office.
It’s not fair. I also saythatat least twenty times a day.
I glance down at my watch, realizing William’s dad was here for an hour, which is an extended visit. I missed lunch, and the older kids will be back from school in an hour.
I have to file more paperwork and pick up some reports at the courthouse. This activity’s repetition offers too much time to think about what led Keegan and me to this moment of never-ending solitude. Ironically, last year around this time, I was sure we were reaching the first stage of failure. I just didn’t realize how final it would be.
It was one of my few days off. I was determined to keep working, but Leena subtly advised that I take a personal day. The bags under my eyes were becoming more noticeable, and I could afford a ten-hour nap, but it wasn’t because of all the hours I had been working.
It was due to sheer exhaustionfrom being unable to sleep at night.
To outsiders, I must have appeared hormonal or staying out too late at night because that would be a typical visible effect on a twenty-something-year-old. Except that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I had my bare feet up on the oatmeal-colored ottoman. The four monochrome but complementary sunflower-yellow throw pillows were supporting my back, and I had a copy of US Weekly flipped open to an article about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s royal faux pas while listening to the hum of The Bachelor recap. It was as relaxed as I would be that day, aside from my scheduled pedicure.
