She stayed planted in his way on the top step, arms crossed. “No, they don’t.” She heard the edge coming into her own voice and tried to pull it back. Failed. “But you, of all people,should understand what it costs when a man loses control, and someone else ends up paying the price.”
He froze.
She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.
She knew what she’d done. She’d known it before the sentence was out of her mouth and she’d said it anyway, and now she had to stand here and watch it land on a man who’d been carrying the weight of one terrible night for fifteen years—a man who was three days into trying to raise a grieving teenager and twelve hours into bailing out someone else’s crisis and probably hadn’t slept properly in a week.
She watched it happen on his face and hated herself a little.
He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t come back at her. Didn’t tell her she didn’t understand or ask her who the hell she thought she was to say that to him, which would have been fair enough. He just stood there with his hands at his sides and his jaw tight and his eyes showing something she couldn’t read in the low light.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. “You’re not wrong.”
She waited.
“I didn’t know what else to do. That’s all.” With that, he picked her up and bodily moved her out of his way like he was moving nothing more than a yappy dog.
She spun toward him as he yanked open the door. “Bear?—”
“Goodnight, Greta.”
“But—”
The door shut in her face.
nine
The toast was burning. Bear got to it before the smoke alarm triggered, pulling the rack out and dragging the blackened slices onto the cutting board. He scraped the worst of it over the sink and listened to the ceiling. Logan’s room. The creak of the old house settling in the cold. No footsteps.
He poured his coffee and stood at the counter.
The kitchen window faced Maple Street. Greta’s house was dark across the road, the Jeep already gone—she left early when she had a morning group going out, and today apparently was one of those days. The street was empty except for a pair of crows hopping along the curb two houses down. He watched them for a moment, then looked back at his toast.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
An unknown number with a 406 area code. He answered it.
“Mr. McKenna.” A woman’s voice, measured and professional. “This is Jennifer Hayes from Lewis and Clark County Child Protective Services. Do you have a moment?”
His coffee stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Yeah,” he said. “Go ahead.”
She didn’t waste time, which he appreciated even as it made everything worse. A woman named Patricia Wexler—Patty—hadfiled for emergency guardianship of Logan. Amber’s maternal aunt.
He vaguely remembered her attending his and Amber’s wedding all those years ago. A skinny woman with a constantly pinched expression, she’d disapproved of them getting married so young and made her displeasure known even at their wedding.
But she lived in Missoula, had a stable home, no criminal record, and had submitted documentation citing Bear’s manslaughter conviction and incarceration history as grounds for removal.
He should’ve seen this coming.
“I want to be transparent with you,” Hayes said. “This is a legitimate filing. The court will require a response, and you’ll need representation.”
“I know.” He set the coffee down. “How soon?”
“The preliminary hearing is in six weeks. Nothing will happen before that, and given the timeline and Logan’s age, the judge isn’t likely to grant emergency removal without significant cause.” A pause. “I also want you to know that I’ve received a few minor complaints from a neighbor. I’m not treating them as actionable at this time, but I want you aware they exist.”
“Which neighbor?”
