Page 53 of The Wrong Monster

I turn. “What is it?”

“It’s Miss Pierce.”

My hand pauses on the doorknob.

“She asked if she could speak with you before you left.”

For one absurd moment, I’m tempted. I almost take a step back, and almost walk through the house and up the stairs and to her.

The thought catches me completely off guard.

After days of passing legal memoranda back and forth through Arthur, of catching only fleeting glimpses of her disappearing behind stacks of discovery documents, the idea of walking upstairs almost sounds comforting.

She would undoubtedly have another argument waiting, another criticism, an impossible question.

And somehow I’ve begun looking forward to that.

I picture her sitting cross-legged on the sofa in one of the oversized sweatshirts I had bought for her. Sitting in a nest of legal pads scattered around her like fallen leaves, ready to tell me everything I’m doing wrong.

The image lingers longer than it should.

“No.” The word comes out so sharp that the staff member blinks.

“Sir?”

“Tell Miss Pierce I’ll see her in the morning. I’m busy.”

“But she said it was⁠—”

“In the morning.”

He hesitates, then nods quickly and disappears. Art watches me from across the foyer without commenting. Wise man.

I pull open the front door. Cold rain greets us immediately, dampening collars and darkening the stone steps within seconds. Behind me waits warmth.

Coffee.

A defense attorney who has somehow become part of the rhythm of this house.

Ahead lies something entirely different. The dark streets, men who disappear when sirens sound.

The whispers exchanged beneath awnings and behind bars. The version of my life no amount of luxury construction or lakeside properties will ever erase.

I step into the rain without looking back. Whatever Matilda needed can wait until daylight.

Kevin cannot.

Chapter 15

Matilda

Someone jars my shoulder and I stumble, lips parting as I try to get my bearings on Main Street. I look over my shoulder and the look the jogger is giving me makes it clear that I was the problem.

A glance at Arthur, who follows a few feet behind, confirms that.

It’s surprisingly quiet this morning. Maybe because it’s 9 a.m. on a Sunday. I forget people go to church and see their families. When was the last time I saw mine?

Coming down the hill and getting a glimpse of the lake, I realize that it’s been over a week. Which is fine. Normal. I push away the slight ache of wishing they checked in more, even if it was just sending a ridiculous photo of something touristy they’re doing or asking how work is going.