Chapter 9: The Office on Maple Street
Carol Voss's office was on the second floor of a building on Maple Street, above a dry cleaner.
The waiting room had two chairs and a plant that looked like it had been there since the nineties.
None of it felt like the kind of place where important things happened, and yet.
Pamela sat next to me without speaking.
She had barely spoken since the night before, when I'd told her about Derek's message to Marcus.
She had gone pale and stayed pale.
Carol Voss came out and shook our hands and led us into a room with a round table.
"I'll be direct," she said, sitting down.
"Mr.
Derek Hale contacted your minor son via social media within forty-eight hours of receiving a formal cease-and-desist letter.
That is not a misunderstanding.
That is a deliberate choice." She opened a folder.
"I've filed for an emergency protective order this morning.
A judge will review it today."
Pamela's hand moved on the table.
"A protective order," she said.
"To prevent him from contacting Marcus again until this is resolved through proper legal channels." Carol looked at her.
"Mrs.
Reeves.
I need to ask you something directly.
Is there any chance Derek Hale will claim you invited or encouraged this contact?"
Pamela looked at the folder.
"I didn't tell him to contact Marcus."
"That's not what I asked."
A pause.
"He may say that our conversations gave him reason to believe I was open to it."
"Were you?"
Another pause.
Longer.
"I wanted Marcus to know where he came from eventually.
I thought — I thought if I could control how it happened—"
"You weren't able to control how it happened," Carol said.
Not unkindly.
"Which is why we're here."
She turned to me.
"The protective order will hold while we establish the legal framework.
If he violates it, he faces criminal consequences.
If he wants to pursue any formal parental rights claim — which, given the timeline and your role as the established father, would be extremely difficult — he would need to do that through the courts.
In the open.
On the record."
"What does Marcus need to do?" I asked.
"Nothing.
He's a minor.
This is handled by the adults around him." She closed the folder.
"What I'd suggest is that you and your wife decide, together, what you want Marcus's relationship with his biological father to look like in the long term — if any.
That decision belongs to Marcus too, when he's ready.
But right now, the priority is making sure no one can approach him without his consent and yours."
We drove home mostly in silence.
Halfway there, Pamela said, "I'm sorry, Anthony.
I know that's not enough."
"It's not," I said.
"But I heard it."
She looked out the window.
"Do you think Marcus will ever want to meet him?
When he's older?"
"I don't know.
That's up to Marcus."
"And us?
What's up to us?"
I kept my eyes on the road.
"I don't know that either yet.
But I know I'm not making that decision while I'm still this angry."
She nodded.
"That's fair," she said quietly.
"That's more than fair."
The protective order was granted by four o'clock that afternoon.
Carol Voss sent a text with two words: *It's done.*
I showed it to Marcus that evening.
He read it, handed the phone back, and said, "So he can't message me again?"
"Not without legal consequences."
He thought about that.
"Good," he said.
May you like
Then: "Can we order pizza?"
We ordered pizza.
