“And the real cops,” I add. “What he just did? That’s assault. Child abuse.”
She nods, something hard settling in her eyes. “You’re right. No more excuses. No more protecting him.”
I get the kids settled on the couch, grab ice for Tyson’s face and tissues for Blythe. While Golda calls her lawyer, I step into the kitchen for my own calls.
My agent first. “Tony, clear my schedule for the next few days. Family emergency.”
Then the team lawyer. “Jim, it’s Dex. I need help with a situation. Seattle detective. Child abuse allegations. Yeah, it’s personal.”
Finally, Roman. “He showed up. Hit the kid. We need everything you’ve got on him. Now.”
When I get back, Golda’s taking pictures of Tyson’s bruise and writing down everything that happened. The kids are quiet, all the morning’s pancake happiness completely gone.
“No school today,” she says as I sit down next to her. “Jessica’s filing for an emergency protective order.”
“Good.” I take her hand. “Team lawyer’s coming. Roman’s bringing whatever dirt he’s got on Evan.”
She squeezes my fingers, getting stronger by the minute. “This ends today. No more threats. No more being scared. No more letting him control us.”
“Damn right.” I look at Tyson trying to be brave, at Blythe gone quiet and watchful, at Golda with something fierce and determined in her eyes.
“Whatever it takes,” I promise all of them. “We’re fixing this. Together.”
I mean every word. Somewhere between teaching kids to skate and falling for a woman’s voice in the dark, these three became mine. My family. My responsibility. My everything.
And I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt them again.
17
GOLDA
My kitchen tablehas seen better days. Coffee rings from years of rushed mornings, crayon marks from Blythe’s “artistic periods,” and now it’s covered with legal documents that could change everything.
Jessica sits across from me, her laptop open, typing notes while she talks. “The emergency protective order is straightforward. Physical assault of a minor, multiple witnesses. The judge will sign it.”
“How long until it goes through?” I ask, watching Tyson through the doorway. He’s building something elaborate with Legos, but I can see him touching his cheek every few minutes, like he’s making sure the bruise is still there.
“Few hours. This judge isn’t in Willis’s golf circle, so we don’t have to worry about any... complications.”
The team lawyer—Jim something—checks his phone. “My contact says we’re first on the docket. Should have papers by noon.”
I nod, trying to focus on logistics instead of the image burned into my brain of Evan’s hand connecting with Tyson’s face. The sound it made. The way my son just... dropped.
“Mom?” Blythe appears beside my chair, still in her school uniform. “Can I have a snack? My stomach is making angry noises.”
Right. Food. Normal parent things that don’t stop happening just because your world implodes.
“PB&J okay?” I ask, already getting up.
She considers this with the seriousness of a UN negotiator. “Strawberry jelly?”
“The only kind.”
“Can I have chocolate milk too? Since it’s a weird day?”
“It’s a weird day,” I agree, laying slices of bread onto plates.
Dex walks in, his hair sticking up at odd angles like he’s been running his hands through it. “Coffee?”
