Chapter 10
The deputy met us in the hallway outside the penthouse at nine. He was younger than I'd expected, clipboard in hand, radio crackling low on his shoulder. My dad stood a few feet back with my daughter on his hip, her yellow dress bright against his dark overcoat. I could feel her watching the door.
"Ma'am, I'm Deputy Torres," he said. "We have twenty minutes for a civil standby. You tell me what you need, you get it, we leave. No arguments inside. If he doesn't let us in, we leave and you go back to the court."
I nodded. My hands were shaking and I pressed them flat against my belly without thinking. Seven and a half months now, the pressure low and constant.
I stepped up to the dark wood double door and punched in the code on the silver and black lock. The same code I'd used for two years. The keypad lit up, beeped once, then flashed red.
I tried again, slower. Red again.
"He changed it," I whispered.
Deputy Torres watched the lock, then knocked, hard, three times. "Sheriff's department. Open the door."
For a second nothing happened. Then I heard the soft click from inside, the electronic whir as the bolt retracted from the other side. He'd been standing right there.
He opened the door six inches, chain still on. He wore the same black turtleneck, careful, his watch catching the hall light. He looked past me to the deputy, not at me.
"Officer," he said, smooth. "This is my residence."
"Sir, this is a civil standby for retrieval of personal belongings," Torres said, even. "Step back and open the door, please."
He held my eyes for a beat, then unlatched the chain and pulled the door inward. The smell of the penthouse hit me — coffee and that cleaner he liked — and the warm recessed lights were all on, the marble floor polished to a glare.
Torres didn't move right away. He looked at him, then at me, then back. "Sir, I need you to stay in the living area by the sofa. Don't interfere."
He gave a small, tight smile. "Of course."
My dad stayed in the hall with my daughter. "We'll be right here, honey," he said. I could see his knuckles white where he held her.
Inside, the curved dark sofa was exactly where it had been, the round coffee table, the patterned rug. The place looked untouched, like he'd straightened everything after.
"Show me what you need," Torres said, pen ready.
I started talking fast, my voice thin. "My cream dress, the one I was wearing, it's in the master closet. Her yellow dress, another one, and her white shoes. My documents — they're in the top drawer of the dresser. Birth certificate, passport, her shot records."
Torres wrote it down, word for word. "Let's get them. Sir, please stay where you are."
He followed me down the short hall, keeping his body between me and the living room. I pulled my phone from my pocket as we walked. My hand was sweating.
In the bedroom, I opened the closet. My cream dress hung right where I'd left it, the hem still dirty from the marble floor. I folded it over my arm. Her little yellow dress was next to it. I grabbed the white shoes from the floor. Torres watched, noting each item on his form without touching anything himself.
"Documents?" he prompted.
I slid open the top dresser drawer. The folder was there. I flipped it — passport, certificate, the immunization card. All of it.
"That's mine," I said.
He nodded. "Take it."
Back in the living area, he was still by the sofa, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed like this was an inconvenience. My phone was recording now, held low against my side, lens pointed toward the entry door.
"Ma'am, I need you to try the lock again from inside, on video, so we have that the code was changed," Torres said quietly. He'd seen me holding the phone.
I walked to the double door. My heart was beating so loud I was sure the mic picked it up. I punched in the old code again, letting the camera catch the keypad. Beep. Red light. Locked.
I looked at him. "Open it with your code."
For the first time his calm cracked. "That's not necessary."
"Sir, open the door," Torres said, firmer now. "Let her document it."
He stared at me, then stepped forward and tapped a different four-digit code, quick, shielding it a little but the camera caught the motion. The lock flashed green and whirred open. He pushed the door a few inches and let it swing shut and lock again automatically.
Torres made a note. "Sir, changing the code to keep a resident from her belongings is something the court will look at. You need to provide her access or make arrangements through your attorneys. Do you understand?"
He didn't answer right away. His jaw worked. "She can have her things."
"Good," Torres said. He turned to me. "You got what you need for now?"
I clutched the dresses and the folder to my chest. My phone was still recording, the green light steady on the lock. "Yes."
Torres looked between us one more time, his eyes lingering on the way he stood, too close to the door, controlling it. "Sir, I'm going to advise you not to contact her except through attorneys. Any harassment, any lock changes again, you could be looking at more than a civil matter. Clear?"
He gave a short nod, his eyes never leaving me.
May you like
Torres put a hand lightly on my elbow. "Let's go."
I walked out into the hallway where my dad waited, and the door clicked locked behind me. My daughter reached for me, and I held her yellow dress out so she could see it, and breathed for the first time since I'd touched that keypad.
