Owen handed me the soup.
“He watched the gate.”
“Traitor.”
We ate in the break room.
Marian had not officially begun yet, which meant the office phone interrupted lunch twice. On the third ring, I carried my soup with me and answered at the desk.
“Callahan Marine Works.”
Silence.
Then a voice that turned my blood cold.
“Put Noah on.”
My grip tightened around the receiver.
“Diane.”
“So now you answer on his behalf.”
I closed the office door.
“You were explicitly told not to contact him.”
“I am his mother. I have every right to speak to my son.”
“No.”
“He owes me an explanation.”
“You entered his workplace without permission, demanded access to his settlement, threatened to have him declared incompetent, and afterward he experienced a neurological episode severe enough to send him to the hospital.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“He lost speech.”
A pause.
Barely half a second.
Then she said, “Noah has always been theatrical.”
Rage rose with such force that the edges of my vision tightened.
I planted my free hand on the desk.
Do not shout.
Do not give her anger she can reshape into evidence.
“You will not call this business again.”
“I will call wherever I choose.”
“This conversation is being recorded.”
