Chelsea comes into the room, sipping her coffee, wearing jeans and a loose red flannel shirt. Her hair shines red-gold in the sunlight from the window, pulled back in a high ponytail.

She looks . . . better, but not good.

The way a china plate that was broken into pieces looks better once it’s glued together. But you know the slightest vibration could shatter it all over again.

We stop for bagels on the way to my apartment, where I change my clothes, and then we head to the offices of Adams & Williamson. Working on Saturday is fairly common there, so there are a few attorneys milling about in casual weekend clothes. I lead Chelsea into my office, where Stanton, Sofia, and Brent are already waiting. After a round of sympathetic hugs for Chelsea and a few arm slaps for me, we sit around my desk.

“They fucking have everything.” I curse, flipping through the social services report that accompanied the court order. And on paper, it doesn’t look good. “Rory’s arrest and his broken arm, Riley getting detained after the party, the stuff with Raymond and Jeremy Sheridan. They even mention Rosaleen’s disappearing act. Did they bug the goddamn house?”

“Probably interviewed the neighbors,” Sofia suggests. “Parents of friends. Chelsea, the report mentions Regan’s speech delay, which CFSA claims you haven’t adequately addressed?”

Chelsea shakes her head. “She doesn’t have a speech delay—all the kids were late talkers. It freaked Rachel out at first, but the pediatrician always said it was totally normal.”

I point at Sofia. “We need to get a statement from the pediatrician. And Rory’s therapist. And their teachers—they’re smart kids, they do well in school; that’ll work in our favor.”

Stanton nods. “And I’ll dig around into Dexter Smeed and CFSA. See what their track record is lately.”

We break up to our respective tasks. Before Brent starts helping Sofia with those statements, he gets Chelsea settled comfortably on the leather couch by the window. He hands her a hot cup of tea, then he takes out his monogrammed flask and pours a shot’s worth into her cup. “A little nip in the morning is a good thing. Gets the blood going.”

“Thank you, Brent.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. They’ve awoken a sleeping giant. And Jake is the scariest giant around.”

• • •

A few hours later I’m in the firm’s library, looking for several volumes among the long, crowded stacks. I feel Stanton watching me as he pulls his own book off the shelf.

“How are you doin’, man?”

“How do you think I’m doing?” I reply without looking up.

“I think you’re all twisted up inside about his. Can’t decide who you want to kill first. That’s how I’d be—if it was Presley.” He pauses, waiting for my response. I pull a book from the shelf and scan its pages. “I just want you to know I’m here for you, Jake. Whatever you need.”

I slam the book closed with a bang, and I glare at him—not because he’s done anything, but just because he’s there. “A kid’s house is like their fortress. It protects them from the boogeyman, or whoever the fuck kids are afraid of nowadays.” My teeth grind. “And they came into their house and they took them, Stanton. You know what that does to a kid?”

He nods. “Yeah, I do.”

I don’t want to talk about this. I just . . . can’t . . . go there right now. “You want to make me feel better?” I push the book in my hands against his chest. “Find me something I can use to walk in there on Monday and nail this fucker to the wall.”

• • •

A few hours after that, I’m at my desk, working on our response to CFSA’s motion for custody. Chelsea’s moved a chair closer to me. She sits, curled up like a kitten, watching me.

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing to a huge mother of a text open on my desk.

“Those are statutes. The laws about child custody.”

She rests her head against her hand. “Why are they written like that?”

“Well, the classic answer is so there’s no room for interpretation. So someone can’t argue it means anything other than exactly what it says. But I think they’re written like that just so lawyers can earn a shitload of money telling everyone else what they mean.”

My answer makes her smile softly. “And what’s that?” She points to another volume on my desk.

“That’s relevant case law. Decisions other judges have made in cases similar to yours. I use that to back up my argument. Judges like to follow the crowd—they’re real all-the-cool-kids-are-doing-it kinds of people.”

She smiles again, blinking slowly, looking totally worn out. I brush her hair back. “Close your eyes, Chelsea. Get some rest.”

And she doesn’t even argue with me.

• • •

It’s dark by the time Chelsea and I get into my car. I bring some files home with me—stuff I’ll work on later—but it seemed like she was done. Couldn’t stand being cooped up in the office for another minute. In contrast to her exhausted demeanor earlier, she seems wired now. Practically vibrating with unspent energy. Desperate.

Her foot taps on the floor of the car. “Can we pick up the dog and stay at your place tonight?”

I don’t have to ask why she’s asking. Without the kids, the house feels like a tomb.

“Sure.”