When I get back to the car, my phone is flashing through the car window.Sienna. That she keeps ringing is making me increasingly nervous, and I need a game plan to stop it. I dial the only person I know who could help.
“Morning, Arthur, it’s Hendricks.” I greet our family solicitor. He’s the one who drew up the various offers and settlements for Sienna to accept. He’s dealt with every legal aspect of Max’s birth and future.
“Hendricks, how are you? To what do I owe this call?”
I get straight to the point. “Have you heard from Sienna’s solicitors in the past few weeks? Or Sienna?”
“Max’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“No. Should I have?”
My head falls back against the headrest. “I don’t know. She’s been calling me.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t answered.”
His silence says the obvious way to find out would be to answer. But I don’t want to speak to her, and Arthur knows that.
“I’ll let the office know to be on alert. If anything comes in, I’ll call you immediately.”
“Thank you.” I go to hang up, then stop. “Wait, Arthur. She can’t take Max, can she? Legally?” Even saying the words out loud makes me feel sick. Panicky. Lightheaded.
“No. You have full custody. But . . . if she decides she wants to fight that. Well?—”
“Got it.” If she decides to fight, that’s a different matter. “Thanks.”
“I’ll let you know.”
This much is true. I’ll tear the earth apart before I let anyone take Max from me. He is my son, born to a mother who abandoned him for the pursuit of fuck-knows-what and a payday. She will never be part of his life. I will not have him suffer because of my mistake.
My grip tightens around the steering wheel while I try to figure out what to do.
The school entrance has emptied. All the 4x4s have gone, and it’s quiet when I make my way back into the main school building. This time, I turn left toward the administration offices and the head’s study.
Which is when this morning’s total and utter shitshow is cemented.
CHAPTER 13
Story
“Miss MacIntosh?”
The voice is deeper than one I’m used to calling me Miss MacIntosh, but it’s needed over a classroom of rowdy children who are yet to settle in their seats.
Mrs. Benson, the headmistress, peers around the doorframe. Her presence, however, has no effect on the class. They’re still too young to realize Mrs. Benson is in charge and commands a level of respect plus a healthy dose of fear that I still carry from my school days here.
I clap my hands together, at least giving my boss the pretense I have some kind of control.
“Class, let’s find our seats, please.” It’s my schoolteacher voice. I keep it gentle but firm, though some mornings are harder than others. “Seats, everyone, please. Put away the games and let’s tidy up. Once we’re done, let’s say good morning to our guest, Mrs. Benson.”
By my estimation, it’s a good three minutes until everyone’s settled, by which point Mrs. Benson stands leaning against the doorframe, beaming at anyone who looks at her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Benson.”
“Good morning, R1 class. How wonderful. What a lovely beginning to my day. I’ve come to borrow Miss MacIntosh for a moment. I hope you don’t mind.”
