And she definitely notices that.

Looking hungrily at the hard outline beneath the towel, she asks, almost breathlessly, “Feeling better?”

I run my tongue along my bottom lip. “Much better.”

And the towel doesn’t stay on my hips for long after that.

• • •

In the days that follow, Chelsea and I find our rhythm again, in and out of the bedroom. My life goes back to normal—a strange, different kind of normal that includes her and the kids. One day, Chelsea joins Brent, Sofia, Stanton, and me for lunch—and Sofia holds Ronan on her lap the whole time. I take Rory to Little League tryouts and we all celebrate with pizza on the back patio when he makes the team. Rosaleen starts lessons with a new piano teacher who comes to the house—and I supervise to make sure there’s not a ruler in sight. Riley discovers 5 Seconds of Summer and One Direction gets downgraded—though to be honest, they all look exactly the same to me. Ronan starts sleeping through the night—a huge plus—while Raymond enjoys his torment-free days at school. And Regan flexes her power with her newly expanded vocabulary, telling us all “no” every chance she gets.

It’s pretty great.

But then . . . a day comes along that changes everything. And it all goes to hell.

• • •

After Mrs. Holten’s strong repudiation of her statement and her refusal to assist the prosecution in any case against her husband, Caldwell had no choice but to drop the charges against the senator. And that was recorded as a win in my column. It’s a big fucking deal for me professionally. I’m now Jonas Adams’s pet employee and the favorite guy in the whole world of Senator Holten—a man with considerable influence in DC. Late one Friday afternoon, the senator makes room in his busy schedule to come to our firm, to Jonas’s office, for a meeting with me. To hobnob and discuss my future.

To talk about all the deals the devil wants to make.

We sit on the leather couches in Jonas’s office, enjoying an afternoon scotch. Holten talks about a good “friend” of his who’s being investigated for money laundering. His eyes are dark, bottomless, almost soulless. And it’s kind of creeping me out.

As the senator drones on, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at it discreetly—Chelsea’s name glows on the screen. I send the call to voice mail. But a few minutes later, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when her silent call comes again.

My thumb hovers for a second . . . and then I send it to voice mail again. This may very well be the biggest meeting of my career—hearing about how many feet Ronan crawled today is just going to have to wait.

We finish our drinks, and the talk turns to my recent cases—my latest acquittal. And then Veronica, Mr. Adams’s private secretary, walks into the office, her voice hesitant at interrupting us. “Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen.” She looks at me. “Mrs. Higgens is on line one, with an urgent call for you, Mr. Becker.”

My first thought is of the kids, that Rory has gotten himself into some fresh brew of trouble or that one of them, maybe Regan—she’s due—has had an accident. Something minor, of course, a broken bone or a cut that needs stitching.

But I cover the concern with a shrug, eyeing Holten and my boss. “My apologies. The cost of being in high demand.”

Mr. Adams nods his head. “Use my phone, Becker.”

I stand beside his desk as their chatter resumes and press the button under the blinking, waiting light. There’s a click over the line, a pause as it connects . . . and then Chelsea’s voice.

“Jake?”

I hear a lot in that one syllable. Her voice is . . . off. Somehow flat and high-pitched at the same time. And she’s exhaling hard, like when you twist an ankle or slice your hand . . . and have to breathe through the pain.

“What’s wrong?”

“Janet’s here. With . . . officers. They have an . . . an order . . .”

And the floor drops out from under me.

“They’re taking the kids, Jake.”

Nausea slams into my stomach and I feel like I’m falling. Grappling, grasping for a perch to stop the descent.

I swallow bile. “I’m leaving right now. Tell them . . .” I choke down a curse. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

“Hurry,” she begs in a whisper. And the line goes dead.

I replace the phone on the cradle. It takes every ounce of control I have not to sprint out of the fucking room or break my way straight through the wall.

“I’m sorry, I have to leave.” My briefcase is in hand and I’m already walking to the door as my boss calls, “Becker, Senator Holten is only available for this afternoon.”

Gripping the doorknob, I make myself turn and answer. “Again, I’m very sorry we couldn’t speak longer, Senator. But”—I don’t even have to think about my next words—“it’s a family emergency.”

22

I burst through the door, wild and seething, struggling to pull my shit together. Because emotions make you sloppy, careless. And I really need to be on point.

The foyer is empty—I stalk into the living room. There, the first thing I see is Riley, a packed blue canvas duffel bag at her feet, rubbing her little sister’s trembling back as she buries her face against Riley’s stomach. The fourteen-year-old looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears being kept at bay.

“It’s okay.” She nods, trying so damn hard to be brave. “I’m okay.”