Chapter 7: At the Door
I was back at the house in twenty-two minutes.
Serena was still there.
She was standing on the front step in a cream-colored coat, her hair done, her composure fully restored.
A car idled at the curb — not hers.
A hired car.
She'd thought about this.
I parked and walked toward her without hurrying.
"You changed the locks," she said.
"I did."
"That's my home, Victor."
"It's also Ethan's home." I stopped at the base of the steps.
"You're not coming in."
She looked past me toward the door.
"I want to see my son."
"Your son has a fracture in his forearm.
He's resting."
"Which is exactly why I should be with him." Her voice was measured.
Reasonable.
The voice she used in rooms full of people she needed to impress.
"Victor, I understand you're upset.
I understand last night was—"
"Don't."
She stopped.
"Don't manage me," I said.
"Not today."
Something flickered behind her eyes.
She reset it quickly.
"I've spoken to Douglas.
He says you haven't called him back."
"I'm communicating through my attorney."
"That's—" She exhaled.
"That's unnecessary.
We don't need to do this through lawyers.
We can talk.
We've always been able to talk."
"Serena." I looked at her directly.
"You threatened Lily with deportation to keep her from telling me what you were doing to our son.
That's not a misunderstanding.
That's not something we talk through over coffee."
Her jaw tightened.
"I was trying to manage a difficult employee."
"She's not an employee.
She's a caregiver.
And you used her legal status as a weapon to protect yourself."
"I protected this family—"
"From what?" My voice came out harder than I intended.
"From a fourteen-month-old who cried too much?
What exactly were you protecting us from?"
She didn't answer.
"Go back to your mother's," I said.
"Your attorney will hear from Patricia Wren by end of day."
I turned toward the door.
"I know about the neighbor," Serena said behind me.
I stopped.
"Mrs.
Hargrove." Her voice had changed.
The reasonableness was gone.
"I know your lawyer sent someone to talk to her this morning.
I want you to know — that woman doesn't know anything.
She saw a nanny on a front step.
That's all."
I turned back slowly.
"Then you have nothing to worry about," I said.
"I'm telling you this as a courtesy." She took one step down toward me.
"Victor.
I am Ethan's mother.
Whatever you think happened — whatever that girl wrote in her notebook — I am his mother.
That matters in a courtroom.
That matters to a judge."
"It does," I agreed.
"And so does a forensic analysis of four months of dated journal entries.
And so does a hospital report filed by a physician with no connection to either of us.
And so does a perjured affidavit from a woman who lives in Phoenix and has never set foot on our street."
The color left her face.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
Like water draining.
"You found Greta," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Douglas Harpe filed her affidavit this morning," I said.
"That was a mistake."
She stood very still on the step.
Then, quietly: "What do you want, Victor?
Tell me what you want and let's end this."
"I want my son to be safe," I said.
"That's all I've ever wanted."
I went inside.
Through the window beside the door, I watched the hired car pull away from the curb.
Lily was in the hallway with Ethan on her hip.
She'd heard enough.
"She's scared," Lily said.
"Yes," I said.
"Scared people do worse things than calm people."
I looked at her.
She was right.
And I had four days until the hearing.
May you like
That night, Patricia called with news about Mrs.
Hargrove — and what she'd told Patricia's investigator was not what any of us had expected.
