Page 56 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Twenty-Three
KEANE
Iwake to the sound of movement—fast, purposeful, and too much energy for the hour. Oren’s already out of bed, bare feet thumping across the floor. He’s humming, of all things, as he digs through his sock drawer.
By the time I prop myself up on one elbow, he’s grinning at a pair of neon-striped socks as if they’re a prize worth framing. Next comes the bathroom, teeth brushed, floss snapped between them, mouthwash gargled so enthusiastically I half expect him to come out blowing minty bubbles.
He does a little skip-step toward the kitchen, still humming, but then stops short. I don’t have to see what he’s looking at to know: the coffee maker. His eyes cut sideways toward the bedroom, guilty as a cat with feathers stuck to its lips.
I clear my throat deliberately, and his shoulders jump. “Coffee after breakfast, counselor’s orders.”
He huffs, mutters something about cruel and unusual punishment, but abandons the machine.
By the time he shuffles to the table, I’ve got waffles stacked high, butter melting into the gridlines, and juice poured. His eyes go round, his smile softening as he sits.
We eat together, and while I quietly tuck into my breakfast, Oren smacks his sticky syrup-lips loudly, bouncing in his seat. I run through the checklist again, operation Eliminate Vince, step by step. Block, screenshot, backup, change locks, tighten privacy. He nods along, serious in a way that doesn’t come naturally to him, but he’s listening. Really listening.
When the plates are pushed aside, he tilts his chin, looking hopeful.
“Will you stay again tonight?”
The words hit me square in the chest. I reach across and cover his restless hand with mine.
“Yes.”
I let the word sit there between us, firm as stone. Then I add, quieter, “But, Oren, you need to feel strong on your own again, too. We’ll get you there. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you do.”
His fingers curl under mine, squeezing, and the trust in his eyes nearly undoes me.
I hated leaving.Every bone in me wanted to stay planted at Oren’s table, watch him fuss with his diabetic coma-inducing coffee, make sure every lock on his apartment clicked shut behind me. But he’d lifted those bright eyes and promised he could handle the day with the plan we’d made, and I’d promised to trust him.
Still, as soon as I step into the office, my thumb starts its routine: hourly check-ins.
You good?
Did you eat a snack?
Send me a picture of your comfort item.
Each time, his replies come quick—sometimes a photo of disgusting-looking green paper squares he swears are seaweed snacks that taste like salty pond scum, sometimes a string of emojis that look like a toddler trying to communicate in hieroglyphics. It helps. Not enough, but it helps.
By midday, the front desk is buzzing—Vince Marlowe calling. He’s already rung through twice, asking to be transferred to me. I’d had the calls blocked, rerouted, ignored. But when his name hits the switchboard a third time, I know ducking him isn’t going to cut it.
I close my office door, sit forward, and pick up the receiver.
“Marlowe.” My voice comes out clipped, controlled. “You wanted me? You’ve got five minutes.”
Silence stretches on the other end—then that smooth, affected drawl, the one I already hated for how false it rang, scrapes my ear.
“Keane. I was hoping we could have a civilized conversation.”
Civilized. I press my knuckles to my desk, jaw tight. This isn’t about civility. This is about control, and I’m not about to let him think he has any over me, or over Oren.
Did Vince pick me as his lawyer by accident, the universe throwing us together, or was it deliberate? It’s a line of thought I can’t shake as he speaks.
Half of me wants to be clinical. Maybe he’d hired the first decent criminal attorney he could find, or maybe someone on his side recommended me because I’m good at digging people out of holes.
