Chapter twenty-one
Lindsay
We're already in motion when the museum doors close behind us.
Arthur walks with purpose, already transitioning to the next obligation.
I fall into step beside him without thinking. My legs feel a half-beat off, still rattled by the incident.
The SUV waits at the curb, engine running, driver attentive.
Inside, the door closes with a solid, muffled thud. The sound makes me flinch.
The car pulls away from the museum smoothly, turning toward what I assume is home.
My pulse still hasn't settled.
I can still feel where Arthur's hand was on my arm. The ghost of his weight shielding me against that wall. The way he moved—fast, certain, unapologetic.
I check the time on my phone out of habit, needing to do something ordinary.
My fingers fumble the screen, but I get it open.
It's almost three.
Henry gets out of school in fifteen minutes.
I glance at Arthur, who's already reviewing something on his phone, expression unreadable.
"Do you ever pick Henry up from school?" I ask.
Arthur glances at me—genuinely puzzled.
I realize I’ve been staring.
"Why would I?"
I blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question.
"Because…" I pause, searching for the right words. "Sometimes it's nice. Because kids like seeing their parents show up. Not drivers. Not staff. Just… parents."
Arthur considers that in silence, eyes forward.
The SUV continues toward home, the city slipping past the windows in familiar patterns.
"I'm usually at work," he says finally. Not as a defense. As a fact. "He's always picked up the same way."
I watch his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers rest lightly against his knee. Controlled. Measured. Always aware of the next thing.
"I thought maybe today could be different."
For a moment, I think he's going to say no.
Then he lifts a hand slightly, addressing the driver without raising his voice.
"Change course," he tells him. "We're picking up Henry from school."
The SUV signals and turns.
