The website loads and my father’s face stares back at me from the About page, serious in his navy suit, and my breath whooshes from my lungs like a fist squeezed them.
“Criminal defense,” I murmur, scanning the practice areas. “White-collar crime. Corporate litigation.”
I click through to the notable cases section, but there’s nothing.
Of course.
“I don’t think these guys would allow anything to be on a website, Half-Pint.”
“And so what, we just trust Art? We trust that hehandledeverything?”
“No. We definitely do not trust Art.”
“Right.” I pull out my phone and call my father. It rings four times and goes to voicemail.
Irritation coats my throat because I know he’s avoiding me. And if he wasn’t in danger anymore, he wouldn’t be.
“Hey, Dad.” I keep my voice light and easy, just the way he taught me. Never let opposing counsel hear you sweat. “Just checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Give me a call when you get a chance, okay? Love youto the moon.”
I hang up and set the phone face down on the counter.
Lance is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“He won’t call back tonight,” I say. “What if they’ve hurt him?”
Lance sighs. “Then we’ll figure out how to get you to Boston to make sure.”
“You will?”
He nods.
“And when I see him, I’ll know what questions to ask. The best cross-examination isn’t about what the witness admits.”
“It’s about what they won’t,” he finishes.
Warmth flickers in my chest despite everything. He remembered.
“We should eat,” he says, pushing off the counter. “I’ll make something.”
“You’ll make something.” I raise an eyebrow. “The man who’s afraid of mushrooms.”
“I’m not afraid of mushrooms. I just don’t see the point of them.”
“There is so much wrong with that sentence.”
He almost smiles. And the fact that he can, right now, after everything we just said feels like the bravest thing either of us has done today. He opens the fridge and stares into it like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I can offer you peanut butter and jelly.”
Cavall trots in, Virgil in his mouth, and drops the duck at my feet like an offering before settling against Lance’s legs.
The three of us in this kitchen. PB&J at ten p.m. because the world is falling apart and we don’t know what else to do.
“Genevieve.”
“Hmm?”
“We’ll figure this out.”
He moves toward me and reaches out, his hand cupping my cheek so firmly, his fingers touch the back of my neck.
