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Erica listens keenly.
The other women look entranced.
My alarm goes off.
I clasp my hands behind my back. “Any questions?”
No one says a word.
I’m not sure if I broke them.
Ms. Phoebe shuffles forward. “Thank you, Cody. That was very inspiring.”
Applause breaks out, and I squirm. Why are they clapping? All I did was skim the surface of the lessons I’ve learned.
Lowering her voice so only I can hear, Ms. Phoebe whispers, “Have you considered a future as a motivational speaker?”
Her praise takes me by surprise.
Who knows. Maybe I’ve gone soft because I know these women now.
I’ve seen Erica’s parents, where she lives, how suffocated she feels.
I’ve seen Maggie cry over a regular two-bedroom house because it represents a fresh start for her and her daughter.
These women aren’t just faceless blobs in a random charity anymore. They aren’t numbers on a report that crosses my desk and then get shoved into Vargas’ lap for tax returns.
They’re people I care about.
People I’m rooting for.
“Bolton…” Vargas points to the door.
It’s time to go.
Quietly, Liandra follows me to my car. She climbs into the backseat and I settle in beside her, undoing my jacket.
The car moves off and I check my phone.
Clarissa: You still alive?
Cody: Barely.
Clarissa: I owe you, Cody.
Cody: Don’t worry, princess. I know just how to collect.
Liandra lifts her chin. “Was that rehearsed?”
I look up from my phone, perplexed.
“Did you warn those women I was coming and ask them to make you look good?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”
She humphs.
I swivel toward her. “Ms. Maura, I know what you must think of me. And it’s deserved. What I did to Clarissa was terrible and I regret hurting her. But I promise you that from now on—”