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  “Number three, you have to get a household up and running. Go shopping.” Stephanie checked her watch. “It’s only two o’clock. Stores are open late.”

  “I have all that stuff in my storage unit, from my old house. I have furniture, too.”

  “No, we don’t have time to unpack an entire house. I want you to buy dishes, towels, sheets, and toys, and take some nice pictures of the apartment, especially Emily’s room, and email them to me.” Stephanie kept writing. “Number four, I want you to call rehab for your injury and set up an appointment.”

  “That’s a long process.”

  “So?” Stephanie met his eye, sharply. “Now, you said you have feelers for a job. Fill me in.”

  “There’s one in Connecticut that’s open right away. I didn’t want to take it unless I had to. I didn’t want to move the baby away from Danielle and Bob.” Mike tasted bitterness on his tongue. “Ironic, huh?”

  “Forget that. The judge won’t let you relocate without their consent. How are your finances? Can you stay out of work for a month? It would be better for Emily if you could be home with her for a while, and it would look better to the court.”

  “Okay.”

  “But number five, for after that period, I would like you to line up some sort of part-time work.” Stephanie started writing on the pad again. “What about the job at the trade show? Is that part-time?”

  “It could be.”

  “Firm it up, so we can represent to the court that you’re good to go. Also, we have to talk about childcare for Emily.” Stephanie paused, eyeing him. “I would like you to consider having Danielle become Emily’s childcare provider in your home, on a paid basis, while you are at work.”

  “No way!” Mike shot back. “She and Bob are the last people I’d ask to do anything. You said it yourself; they wrote an agreement that they knew put them in the driver’s seat.”

  “I understand that, but you have to think about the continuity of care, for Emily.” Stephanie’s eyes widened, in a frank way. “Wouldn’t it be in Emily’s best interests if Danielle were involved in her life, going forward?”

  “I can’t imagine letting either of them be with Emily, ever again.”

  “Wrong answer.” Stephanie shook her head in disapproval. “You’re speaking out of your own anger. You’re not thinking about Emily. You thought highly enough of Danielle’s care to leave Emily with her after you renewed your contract, so what I would like to propose at the hearing is that Danielle take care of Emily. If she’s not interested, it will make her look bad, in that she’d only care for Emily if she’s legally in her custody. Do you follow?”

  “Yes, but it drives me crazy.”

  “Stop with the crazy. You’ve had enough crazy, and it doesn’t serve you.” Stephanie made another note on the sheet. “While we’re on the topic, number six, I am writing down the phone number of a therapist. I want you to call him today and set up an appointment.”

  “The VA provides that, with rehab.”

  “Then you’ll do that too, but I want you to avail yourself of private therapy as well. Stop avoiding.”

  “I’m not avoiding,” Mike said, though he realized she could be right.

  “We have to show the court that you’re dealing with your emotional issues, and I want to make it clear they’re because you’re coming back from a war and not reflective of a long-term problem.” Stephanie leaned over her desk. “Finally, there’s several things I don’t want you to do. I don’t want you to have any further involvement in Sara’s murder case.”

  “It’s not uppermost in my mind, Emily is, but why should I abandon it? It’s not related to the custody proceeding.”

  “It affects the custody proceeding. Playing cop on Sara’s murder case makes you look like a jealous husband and feeds into a picture that suggests you have deep-seated anger issues.”

  Mike swallowed hard.

  “I’m sorry about the death of your wife, but she’s not the one who was murdered, and right now we have to focus on Emily. So no running around to jewelry stores.”

  “Are you sure?” Mike still couldn’t let it go. “It feels wrong to ignore Sara’s murder for my own problems.”

  “You have your priorities backwards. It’s wrong to set aside your child’s welfare for Sara’s murder case. You’re Emily’s father, and that’s why we have police departments. And obviously, stay away from Bob and Danielle.”

  “Emily, too?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  Mike felt like hitting something. “I have to stay away from my own daughter? They’ll be at Sara’s funeral.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You may not even be there if we get a hearing scheduled, but if you are, give them wide berth. The same goes for the press, the police, ADA, and Pat MacFarland. Anybody calls you, refer them to me. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” Mike answered reluctantly, knowing she was right about that, too.

  “I’ll email you when we get the hearing date, and we’ll meet before to prepare you for your testimony.”

  “Thanks.” Mike paused. “But I don’t understand something. If Bob threw me out to force my hand, why don’t we wait to go to court? I’d only have more of my ducks in a row, down the line.”

  “Delay is never good. It looks as if you didn’t care, and my instinct is to be aggressive.” Stephanie tore off the paper and handed it across the desk. “This is your list. Start now. Get as much done as is humanly possible.”

  Mike read the list, which was written in block printing, more architect than lawyer. “I’m on it.”

  “My secretary will give you a representation agreement, which you should sign on the way out.” Stephanie gestured behind her. “You can bring a check to the hearing. As I told you on the phone, my retainer is five thousand dollars. Keep checking your email. If I reach the judge, I’ll let you know. It will be soon.”

  “Okay.” Mike swallowed hard. “Do you think we’ll win?”

  “It could go either way. It will depend on how you testify.” Stephanie’s features softened. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you walk in unprepared. I got your back.”

  “If we win, I get to take her home, right? She’s mine then, legally, right?”

  “Yes, and if we lose, then I’ll ask the court to review its order in four months, but I’d probably get six. I’d also ask for visitation, but depending on how we do, worst-case scenario, it’s supervised.”

  “For six months, they get to live with Emily? And I only get to visit, with a supervisor?”

  “Like I said, worst-case scenario. You have to step up your game if you want your daughter back. Can you do that, for her?” Stephanie met his eye, awaiting his answer, and Mike thought back to Sunday morning, when he’d read to Emily for the first time, and to the vow he’d made to her.

  “Yes,” he answered, his heart speaking for him.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  TopTrees was a three-story apartment complex, and Mike hurried to the rental office, his head down against the biting snow and his empty sleeve in his pocket. His stump hurt in earnest, and it was all he could do not to take another pill. He went inside the office, a studio apartment that had been repurposed, and a twenty-five-year-old manager sat behind a generic Staples desk, laughing on his cell phone. He hung up quickly, rising.

  “I’m Brian, Dr. Scanlon,” the manager said, extending a hand, and Mike shook it.

  “Call me Mike. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Sure, follow me.” Brian led Mike out of the office and down a covered walkway. There were three buildings to the complex, which was in decent repair, with olive green siding and sliding windows. “The unit is a two-bedroom, fully furnished. Rent is one thousand and two hundred bucks a month, including utilities, and the security deposit is first and last month. Two numbered parking spaces, no pets.”

  “Does furnished mean silverware and plates?”

  “Yep, everything except she
ets and towels. The guy that just moved out of your unit was an accountant, and he took good care of it. How old’s your kid?”

  “I have a daughter, she’s almost two.”

  “We got kids in the complex, mostly on the weekends.” Brian produced a key ring as they reached Apartment 3A. “This is one of the nicest units, full southern exposure.” He opened the door onto a clean white box of a living room, with a nubby tan rug and nondescript couch and chairs. The air smelled like piney spray cleaner, but wasn’t unpleasant. Mike couldn’t help thinking that Chloe would’ve hated the place.

  “Nice.”

  “Appliances only three years old.” Brian gestured to the kitchen, with white cabinets, butcher-block counters, and stainless steel appliances.

  “Okay.” Mike shrugged. It was the new normal.

  “I’ll show you the bedrooms.” Brian walked ahead, and Mike followed him down the hall, where two bedrooms formed the top of a T, across from each other. Brian gestured at the larger one, which had a generic brown dresser and a queen-size bed. “This is the master bedroom, but check out the kid’s room.”

  Mike followed him into the smaller room, which contained a single bed and another white dresser, and the child-sized desk. “Did you say he had a kid here, too?”

  “Yeah, a girl about eight. She was real nice.”

  “What is this, Divorced Dad Acres?”

  “Totally. Here’s why.” Brian waved at the window, and Mike looked out to see a playground in the corner of the park. Snow dusted the slide, lined the monkey bars, and sat like crescent moons in the seats of the swing set. Next to the playground was a small hill, and people were sledding. He flashed forward to a new life, where he and Emily were spinning downhill on a plastic saucer.

  “I’ll take it,” Mike said, brightening.

  An hour later, he was pushing an oversized shopping cart through the glistening aisles of a big-box store, buying sheets, towels, baby shampoo, baby detangler, ranch potato chips, three stuffed animals, Spot books, DVDs, kid’s pajamas, diapers, Sippy cups, children’s Tylenol, baby wipes, bumpers, and a crib with a matching changing table. His shoulder and stump ached constantly, but he white-knuckled the pain and nausea.

  He parked the first cart, fetched a second, and tugged it behind him, stopping for soap, napkins, pretzels, toothpaste, Fantastic, paper towels, and jars of baby food. When he was finished, he steered the second cart to the line and went back for the first one. While the cashier rang him out, he checked his phone for email. There were two, and the first was from Stephanie: The hearing is scheduled for 12 o’clock tomorrow. Meet me at my office at 10 o’clock to prepare. Mike’s thoughts raced ahead, panicky. He hadn’t made any phone calls. He’d have to make them first thing tomorrow morning, and on top of that, he still had to get the apartment ready and take the pictures.

  “Sir, may I have your credit card?” the cashier asked.

  “Of course, sorry.” Mike put the phone down, fished out his wallet, and thumbed his Visa card out with difficulty, then handed it to the cashier. “Here we go.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and Mike picked up his phone and clicked ahead to the next email, which was from Don.

  Hey Mike, haven’t heard anything new from the police. Have you? Also, I forget if I told you about the memorial program for Sara at school tonight at 7. I’ll look for you guys.

  Mike felt a deep pang. He would be missing Sara’s funeral, so he couldn’t skip the memorial program, too. He pressed REPLY and typed, Don, I will be there tonight but I can’t come to the funeral tomorrow. I am so sorry. I’ll explain when I see you. Haven’t heard from cops. Hang in there, buddy.

  Mike suppressed a wave of guilt. His arm cramped with phantom pain. A pill would have made this so easy, and the craving was so powerful he had to grit his teeth. He put his BlackBerry away and signed the electronic screen while the cashier loaded his stuff into plastic bags, filled the carts, and gestured to another employee in a logo smock for help.

  “May I assist you with those carts, sir?” the employee asked Mike.

  “Thanks,” Mike answered, swallowing his pride. He checked his watch, and it was almost seven o’clock. The only way to make the memorial service on time was to go directly to the school, so he got going.

  Half an hour later, Mike was at the middle school, hustling to the entrance through the blowing snow. He was running late, and the building blazed with light because everybody was already inside. Reporters and photographers collected on the curb by the Wilberg Middle School sign, but luckily that was a distance from the door. Still he flipped up his hood and kept his head down, his emotions in check. Chloe had taught here for five years, and a deep longing for her sucker-punched him. He used to meet her here all the time, especially when he was wooing her in the early days, making up excuses to have lunch with her.

  You don’t really come here for Hot Dog Day, do you? Chloe would ask, smiling.

  Hot Dog Day is my favorite, Mike had said, wiggling his eyebrows.

  Hush, Mike. Mike?

  “Mike?” someone was saying, and Mike looked up from his reverie. A man stood in front of him, a silhouette blocking his path. The man’s face was in shadow, and snow flurries swirled around them.

  “Pardon me?” Mike asked, puzzled.

  “Are you Dr. Michael Scanlon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve been served,” the man said, thrusting an envelope at him.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Mike opened the envelope, stricken, and inside was a packet of papers folded in thirds. It was too dark to see, and snow flew everywhere, so he hurried to the entrance, stood under the overhang, and read the papers in the light coming through the window. SUMMONS AND CIVIL COMPLAINT, it said at the top, and underneath that, PATRICK MACFARLAND VS. MICHAEL SCANLON. So Pat was suing him, after all.

  Mike scanned the paper, an official form that read, This is a notice that you are being sued, and the blank had been filled in, tortious battery, intentional infliction of emotional distress, defamation of character. He flipped to the next page, where it said, DAMAGES, and the blank had been filled in, in excess of five hundred thousand dollars.

  Mike couldn’t read anymore, shaken. He didn’t have that much money saved and he didn’t know what to do, but he had to go inside or he’d miss the memorial service. He stuffed the papers and the envelope in his jacket pocket, then hurried through the entrance doors, and headed past the WILBERG PRIDE banner toward the auditorium. Its back doors were propped open, and the squeaks and miscues of the school orchestra trailed down the hall.

  Mike reached the auditorium, which was standing room only, and he stood behind a forlorn flock of wool coats and down jackets. Subdued sniffling rippled through the crowd, which brought him back to Chloe’s funeral, Phat Phil and Oldstein’s memorial service, and even Linda’s crying after the attack, all the tears swelling like a tide of sorrow that never ended, but just kept crashing onto shore, washing the world in pain.

  The music stopped, and people blew their noses. Mike shifted for a better view of the stage, a sleek curve of maple wood that held Principal Patty Camerone, Vice Principal Joe Swanson, and another administrator, Jason Tremblay, sitting on a line of folding chairs. They had all been friends of Chloe’s, especially Patty.

  Patty really gets the arts program. Some of the others think if you teach art, you’re not a real teacher.

  Patty walked to the lectern, a tall woman with clipped graying hair, trim and fit in a dark suit. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Weaver and the orchestra. You did a wonderful job.”

  Mike scanned the crowd for Bob and Danielle, seething to think they’d be here with Emily. He wondered if they knew about the hearing tomorrow and if they had to go out and get a lawyer. He hoped he’d made them as miserable as they’d made him.

  Patty was saying, “You’ve heard from our faculty members tonight, who knew Mrs. Hambera for a long time. But as our final speaker, let’s hear from someone new to the Wilberg community.
She’s not yet a faculty member…”

  Mike screened Patty out, looking for Bob and Danielle. He had a fantasy of running down the aisle, grabbing Emily, and taking off with her. He could get her out of the school before they could stop him. He would race to the car, hit the gas, and zoom away.

  “I’d like to introduce Ms. Hambera’s student teacher, Barbara Kipper.” Patty stepped aside as a young African-American woman in a black dress adjusted the microphone. “Thank you, Principal Camerone. I’m here tonight to speak about someone we all know and love, Sara Hambera. We know Sara because she was so friendly and open-hearted…”

  Mike found himself tuning her out and imagining taking Emily to another state or even another country. Any other man would’ve done it, no matter what a lawyer said. Chatty would’ve done it, for sure. Jim would’ve, too. They were the kind of men who took charge. Mike was the kind of man who asked permission.

  Barbara continued, “But there’s a lot about Sara you don’t know. For example, did you know that Sara was voted class clown in high school? And does that surprise any of you?”

  The audience chuckled sadly, but Mike shifted and checked for Bob and Danielle, his anger building.

  Barbara was saying, “Teachers touch people’s lives in ways they can never imagine, and Sara let us know her not just as a teacher, but as a girlfriend. We all loved to hear her stories about Don, even if he would rather she hadn’t told them. Right, Don?” The audience chuckled again, and Barbara gestured to her right with a shaky smile.

  Mike followed her motion, and Don was sitting on the left in the front row, his arms around their sons, dressed in clip-on ties and dark blazers. He felt a stab of sympathy for them, then noticed that Bob, Danielle, and Emily sat three rows behind. Emily was twisting around to say something to Danielle, and Danielle and Bob smiled at the same time. Danielle kissed Emily on the head, and Bob fixed something on her coat, then they all smiled again.

  Mike watched, conflicted. He felt angry, but he couldn’t deny what was before his very eyes, and that was, above all, a family. He looked to the right and left of them, and the evidence filled the seats. Bob, Danielle, and Emily fit in perfectly with the mommies and daddies with kids cuddled in their laps, nestled between them, or held in their arms, already sleeping.