"Mommy, I'm done."
"Okay, go play."
He slid off his chair. Juliet pulled Leo upstairs to see the toys in his room, their footsteps thumping up the stairs and disappearing.
I stood, picked up my bowl, followed Olivia into the kitchen.
"I'll do it," I said.
"No need," she said, already turning on the faucet.
I set the bowl by the sink, stood there.
She turned sideways, back to me, washing dishes, shoulders tight, movements faster than usual. The rushing water drowned out any possible conversation in this space.
"Olivia."
"After the dishes, you leave," she said, voice pressed flat. "Juliet has class tomorrow."
I stared at her back for a second, didn't push.
Juliet and Leo said reluctant goodbyes on the steps, dragging it out, promising to see each other next week. I stood beside Olivia, less than an arm's length between us.
"Leo," I said, voice low enough for only her to hear. "How old is he?"
She didn't answer immediately.
The pause lasted only two seconds, but I noticed.
"Five," she said.
"When's his birthday?"
"That's none of your business," she said.
This time, no pause.
Fast enough that I couldn't find anything in it, fast like an answer she'd prepared long ago.
I didn't press. Juliet was already pulling my hand. "Daddy, let's go!"
I looked down at Olivia one last time.
She stood in the doorway, hand on the frame, Leo leaning against her leg, looking up and waving at Juliet. Sunset light hit from the side, stretching their shadows long—one tall, one short—falling on the tiles below the steps.
I turned, led a reluctant Juliet away.
I called Carlo when Juliet was already asleep in the back seat.
"Run someone," I said. "Leo Adrian. Five years old. Pull his birth records, guardian info, everything on Olivia Adrian's past five years in France—any marriages, any relationships with other men."
"Got it," Carlo said. "When do you need it?"
"Tonight."
I hung up.
Juliet's breathing in the back was steady. She was sleeping, cheek pressed against the side of her car seat, stuffed bunny clutched in her arms.
