“Because I was the one who was here when it got bad. You and me. They weren’t. I don’t want them carrying this. I don’t want it shaping them the way it shaped us. I want them to have the normal version of our family.”
Noah’s expression softens. “Mads, they didn’t see it because we didn’tletthem. But they’re not kids anymore. They can help. Maybe not the way we do, but that doesn’t mean we get to decide they don’t get to show up. You’re gatekeeping the trauma. Let them in.”
I huff out a breath. “You make it sound so reasonable. It’s annoying.”
“I’m atherapist,” he says dryly. “It’s literally my job. Now go. Fix whatever you need to fix. I’ve got Mom.”
“Text me if anything changes,” I tell him as I grab my bag.
“I will.”
I hesitate at the door, the guilt already curling in my stomach.
I look back at the house—the house that holds so many silent ghosts—then I leave.
I always do.
And I hate that I have to.
Ten
By the time I limp into the office, the story is already forty-eight hours old. In digital years, that means it should be in the hospice stage, fading into the background of the 24-hour news cycle. Instead, it’s mutating into something far uglier.
“Morning,” I say, shedding my coat with a grace that masks the fact that my spine feels like it’s being held together by rusted staples.
“Morning,” echoes back from three different directions.
Ethan, our newest intern—straight out of Stanford and vibrating with the kind of terrifying potential that makes me want to either mentor or fire him—scrambles to his feet at the reception desk.
“We missed you yesterday, Ms. Callahan,” he blurts out.
I dip my chin, adjusting my bag. “I missed me too, Ethan. How are you settling in?”
“Great,” he says, grinning. “I love the pace.”
“Good,” I tell him. “If you stop loving it, this placewill eat you alive. Keep your head down and your ears open.”
He laughs, unsure if I’m joking.
I’m not.
My assistant, Hazel, falls into step beside me as I head for the conference room. Hazel is the only person in Los Angeles who knows my calendar better than I do and my moods better than anyone I’ve ever dated.
“Boardroom’s ready,” she says, her iPad glowing. “Legal’s here in person. Two advisors are on video from D.C. Communications hasn’t stopped sweating since 8:00 a.m.”
“Shocking. I’ll bring them a towel.”
She lowers her voice as we approach the frosted glass doors. “I finished the deep dive you asked for on Senator Reece.”
“And?”
“Clean so far,” she starts. “Former college quarterback. A bit of a playboy in his twenties, but nothing predatory. Married young. Three kids. No offshore accounts or financial funny business. He’s a quiet donor to a women’s shelter in Oakland and funds a scholarship program at his old high school. No public fanfare.”
I glance at her, impressed. “No skeletons? Not even a stray bone?”
“Not even a rib from a rack of lamb, but we’ll keep digging.”
Good. I don’t clean up for monsters. I don’t care how high the retainer is; I choose my clients based on whether I can look myself in the mirror. I sleep better knowing I’m not helping a predator stay in power.
