Chapter 2: Gray Eyes Across the Marble Island
I stopped at the edge of the kitchen with Finn pressed against me, his pajama sleeve twisted in my fist. I had not meant to carry him that far. His legs had locked around my hip after the bedroom, and every attempt to set him down had made his fingers tighten against the back of my blouse. So I kept him there, one arm beneath his knees, the other across his narrow back, and stood between him and the marble island.
Victor was on the opposite side.
The kitchen lights were still low, leaving the corners gray. His charcoal jacket hung open over his white shirt. One side of his jaw had darkened beneath the skin, and his knuckles were split and red. He held both hands against the edge of the island without leaning his weight on them. The chipped coffee mug sat near his elbow, its broken rim turned toward the room. I saw it because I had seen it every morning for fourteen months, but I did not look at it long enough to wonder why it was still there.
Finn hid his face against my shoulder.
Victor’s gaze moved from the boy to me. Nothing in his expression softened. His gray eyes stayed fixed on mine as if I had brought Finn into the kitchen to make a claim.
I adjusted my stance instead. My heel found the seam between two floor tiles. I kept my body square to Victor and my shoulder angled over Finn’s head. It was a small movement, almost nothing, but it put me in the line between them.
The silence widened.
From somewhere deeper in the house came the faint mechanical hum of the heating system. Finn flinched at the change in pressure, or perhaps only at the quiet itself. His hand slid up my neck and stopped beneath my ear. I could feel the damp warmth of his breath through my hair.
Victor’s damaged hand flexed against the marble. The movement made the red across his knuckles more visible. He glanced toward the hallway, then back at me, as if measuring how far I had come from the bedroom and how much of the house I had crossed without permission.
I did not explain. There was no safe explanation that would not sound like an accusation, and no accusation I could make that would not remind me who signed my checks.
He lifted his chin a fraction.
“You think you’re important?”
The words struck harder because Finn heard them. His body went rigid against mine. I felt his knees draw up, his fingers closing in the fabric at my shoulder. I turned slightly, enough to shield his face from Victor without turning my back on the island.
Victor stepped away from the marble.
I took one step back.
It was not dramatic. I did not run, and I did not raise my voice. I simply carried Finn toward the darker strip of hallway, keeping my eyes on Victor while I moved. The distance between us lengthened by the width of one tile.
Victor stopped.
That pause told me more than the question had. He could order me aside. He could tell me to put Finn down. He could end fourteen months of work with a decision made in the kitchen. Instead, he remained beside the island, his bruised jaw set, his bloodied hands open at his sides.
Finn’s breathing changed. Short, shallow pulls against my collarbone.
I lowered my gaze to him and pressed my palm between his shoulder blades, slow and steady. I did not promise anything. I did not answer Victor. I held Finn where he was and watched the man who could decide whether I was allowed to keep doing it.
Behind Victor, the chipped mug remained untouched on the marble.
The kitchen door stood open to the hall. Beyond it, the bedroom waited with the desk, the carpet, and the place where Finn had disappeared from me for several terrible minutes. Victor looked toward that doorway, then toward the boy in my arms.
May you like
His next decision was already forming in his face.
I tightened my hold on Finn as Victor started forward.
