Page 45 of Monk

I shoved the thought away violently. There was no hope. No second chances. No fucking fairy-tale ending. She moved on. She had made her choice, and I’d made mine.

“Monk?”

Kali’s voice cut through the noise in my head.

I blinked, forcing myself to focus. She was staring at me, her expression concerned.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat. “Fine.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. Kansas was watching me too, his eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to read something I wasn’t saying. I set the mug down on the counter, my hand steady despite the chaos raging inside me. “I’ve got shit to do,” I said, my voice clipped.

Kansas nodded slowly. “Alright.”

I turned and walked out of the gathering room, my boots heavy on the floor. I didn’t look back. Didn’t let them see the way my hands were shaking, the way my jaw was clenched so tight it ached as I pushed through the front door and stepped out into the morning air, the cool breeze doing nothing to calm the storm inside me.

She’s staying. Permanently.

I walked to my bike, my legs moving on autopilot. I threw my leg over the seat and fired up the engine, the roar of it drowning out everything else. I revved the engine once, twice, then peeledout of the compound, the gravel kicking up behind me. I didn’t know where I was going.

Didn’t care.

I just needed to ride.

Needed to outrun the realization that was clawing at my chest, threatening to tear me apart.

She is staying, and so is the kid.

And I can’t fucking escape her.

Not anymore.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lina

The principal’s office smelled like industrial cleaner and disappointment, with a faint undertone of stale coffee that had been sitting in the pot since early morning. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh, unflattering glow on everything below as I sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair across from Mrs. Henderson’s desk, my hands folded in my lap, my posture perfect, my expression carefully neutral while she explained—in excruciating detail—how my daughter had gotten into a fight with another student during morning recess.

She used words like “concerning behavior,” and “inappropriate response,” and “troubling pattern,” each phrase landing like a small stone thrown at my chest. “Ms. Wilcox, I understand Tatum is adjusting to a new school,” Mrs. Henderson said, her tone dripping with condescension, as if she were explaining basic math to a particularly slow kindergartener. “But we have a zero-tolerance policy for violence. Zero tolerance. It’s in the student handbook you signed when you enrolled her.”

I nodded, my jaw tight, teeth clenched so hard I could feel the tension radiating up into my temples. “I understand.”

“She’ll be suspended for three days. Starting tomorrow.”

Three days. Three days of missed schoolwork, of scrambling to find childcare, of falling further behind. I wanted to argue, wanted to explain that Tatum had been defending herself, thatmy daughter would never willingly start a fight, but Tatum had thrown the first punch, and in the eyes of the school, that made her the aggressor. That made her the problem that needed to be removed.

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” I said, my voice calm and professional, betraying none of the frustration and exhaustion churning inside me.

Mrs. Henderson’s smile was tight; her lips pressed into a thin line that didn’t reach her eyes. “I hope so. For Tatum’s sake.”

I stood, smoothing down my skirt with trembling hands, and walked out of the office. The principal’s disappointed gaze followed me as I left, but I didn’t look back. Tatum was sitting on the bench outside, her legs swinging restlessly, her arms crossed tight over her chest in a posture I knew all too well. She was a complete mess—her shirt torn at the shoulder, exposing a scraped elbow beneath, mud streaked across her jeans and face like war paint, her knuckles scraped raw and bleeding. Her lower lip was split and swollen, jutting out in pure, stubborn defiance. A purple bruise was already forming along her jaw.

She looked so much like me at that age it physically hurt. The same fire in her eyes. The same refusal to back down. The same inability to walk away from a fight.

“Let’s go,” I whispered, keeping my voice steady.

She hopped off the bench without a word and followed me down the hallway, her sneakers squeaking loudly against the freshly waxed linoleum floor. I could feel the weight of the secretary’s stare boring into our backs. Neither of us spoke until we were in the car, the doors closed and locked, the engine running and filling the silence with its low rumble. The school building loomed in the rearview mirror.