Chapter 24
Lily was sprawled sideways across his bed with one foot pressed against his neck.
Noah was asleep on the other side even though he had apparently entered the room at dawn and claimed he was only checking on his sister.
Adrian was trapped between them.
His message contained four words.
I cannot feel anything.
I laughed so loudly my neighbor probably heard.
Months passed.
Adrian changed slowly.
Not magically.
Not because love transformed him into a different man.
I would never have trusted that.
He still commanded rooms.
He still had businesses I did not ask questions about.
There were still meetings Marcus removed the children from before they began.
There were still parts of Adrian Moretti I could not reconcile with the peaceful life I wanted.
But around Noah and Lily, he learned patience.
He apologized when he was wrong.
He stopped trying to solve every problem with money.
Mostly.
When Noah got into an argument at school because another boy said something cruel about families without fathers, Adrian wanted the child’s parents investigated.
I found out because Marcus warned me.
I confronted Adrian in his office.
“You are not investigating a seven-year-old.”
“He insulted my son.”
“He is seven.”
“He has parents.”
“You are not investigating them either.”
“They raised him.”
“Adrian.”
He stared at me.
Then he exhaled.
“Fine.”
“Marcus already canceled it.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Marcus needs to remember who employs him.”
“Marcus apparently wants his grandchildren to live long enough to meet him.”
That ended the conversation.
Some things remained painfully Adrian.
Other things softened.
He came to Noah’s school astronomy night and spent two hours standing beneath cheap paper planets hanging from a gym ceiling.
He attended Lily’s art show and bought exactly one painting because I refused to let him purchase the entire display.
He learned the names of their teachers.
He knew their pediatrician.
He knew which medicine Lily hated and which cereal Noah demanded every Saturday.
The missing six years did not disappear.
They became part of him.
Sometimes I caught him watching the twins with an expression that contained joy and grief in equal measure.
On their seventh birthday, Adrian disappeared for twenty minutes during the party.
I found him alone outside.
“You okay?”
He nodded.
“You’re lying.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“You still know.”
“I always will.”
He looked through the window at the twins blowing up balloons with Teresa.