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CHAPTER TWELVE

P aul tapped his pen against his desk in a slow rhythm as he stared at the screen in front of him. The inbox hadn’t changed in the last two hours. He refreshed it again.

Nothing.

His gaze lingered on the top of the thread labeled RE: Apology.

It was still unacknowledged. He should've sent her a text message.

Then at least he could tell if she'd opened and read it.

But he'd debated texting Birdy for a full hour before deciding that email was the best course.

He doubted that decision now. Just like he was doubting the snap judgment he'd made when he met her face to face.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his thumb along his jaw. Maybe she hadn’t seen the email. Maybe she’d seen it and deleted it. Maybe?—

A knock on the door interrupted the spiral. One of the assistants poked her head in.

“You’ve got a walk-in. Said it’s urgent.”

“Give me a sec.” Paul stood, stretching the kink from his back.

He walked into the lobby just as a woman in a tailored coat was ushering a teenage boy down the hall.

The boy’s shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.

He didn’t look up. The woman, who Paul assumed was his mother as their features favored, had a jaw that could slice through granite.

“Mr. Winters?” she asked briskly. “We need a private space to talk.”

“This way.” Paul gestured toward the nearest conference room.

As they moved down the corridor, Paul watched the boy out of the corner of his eye.

Perhaps the kid was using, and the mom wanted help?

No signs of twitchy withdrawal. No discoloration in the eyes.

His gait wasn’t unsteady. Shoes were clean.

Nails weren’t bitten to the quick or chewed ragged.

Not the typical look of a kid using—but looks could be deceiving.

Still… no, that wasn’t it.

The boy flinched—barely—but enough for Paul to notice when his mother placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him through the door. It was subtle. Almost nothing. But Paul had been trained to catch almost nothing.

Could be signs of abuse. Or just regular teenage broodiness. Hard to say. He’d have to listen first. Watch. Ask questions. Let the pieces come together on their own.

He pulled the door shut behind them and turned with a practiced, reassuring smile. Inside, he motioned for them to sit, but the mother stayed standing, practically vibrating with nerves—or fury. Hard to tell with this kind.

The boy slumped into the chair without a word.

“I want to know,” the mother said, setting her purse on the table like a weapon, “if my son’s name has come up in the situation with the baby left at the mayor’s office.”

Paul blinked, his heart giving a slow thud. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I’m talking about. If that girl is saying my son is the father, she’s lying. And I will sue her, and anyone else involved, for defamation if that gets out.”

Paul turned to the boy. The kid still hadn’t said a word. He was staring at the grain of the table like it might open and swallow him whole.

“And your son's name is?”

The mother opened her mouth. Then thought better of it. “You tell me what names have been mentioned.”

“No names have been shared with anyone,” Paul said carefully. “And even if they had, I couldn’t confirm or deny any involvement. That’s protected information. Confidential.”

The mother huffed, pacing once along the window. “So she hasn’t said anything?”

Paul folded his hands together. “As I said, no information can be released. Especially without a formal process.”

That seemed to settle her. A little. She spun on her heel and reached for her son’s arm. “Come on. We’re done here.”

The boy stood slowly, still not speaking, still not meeting Paul’s eyes. But there was something there. In the slump of his shoulders. In the way he let himself be led instead of pushing back.

Guilt? Fear?

The door clicked closed behind them. Paul wanted to follow but for what? He couldn't force them to give them information. Couldn't force them to talk.

He returned to his office. At his desk, he opened his inbox and hit refresh again. Still nothing from Birdy.

But now there was something else. A knot tightening in his gut that he had found the baby's father. That kid was the father. He knew it. Not because the teen's mother had said it—because the kid hadn’t. Sometimes silence screamed the loudest.

Paul stood quickly, the chair legs scraping against the linoleum. He snatched up his coat and keys and moved through the front doors of Social Services without a word to anyone.

The cold slapped him in the face the moment he stepped outside. It was crisp and biting, the kind that stung your nostrils and left snowflakes melting in your lashes. His boots crunched across the salted sidewalk as he scanned the lot.

There they were. The boy and his mother were at her car—arguing now, hands flying, voices too low to carry but sharp enough in tone to cut through the air. Paul slowed his steps, staying just far enough away not to be seen.

The kid turned, shoulders stiff with frustration. He stalked down the sidewalk, head down, fists jammed into his hoodie pockets. The mother climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled away in a huff.

Paul hesitated only a second, then headed after the boy. The kid walked fast. Not like he knew he was being followed. More like he was trying to avoid his mother in the car. He took paths that wound into a park and then emerged onto a side street.

Paul warred between keeping his distance and approaching the kid.

He saw his chance when they rounded a corner where the street dipped into the cozy little café strip downtown.

Snow-dusted sidewalks, glowing streetlamps, and storefront lights flickered with warmth behind foggy glass.

Paul was almost in reaching distance of the kid.

And that’s when he saw her.

She was seated at a bistro table just inside Brew & Biscuit. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Her hair was down around her shoulders in soft, wind-kissed waves. She was smiling. Not her courtroom smile. A real one. Soft. Maybe a little shy.

Across from her sat a man. He was tall. Clean-cut. Button-down shirt under a pea coat. The kind of guy who probably knew the best wine pairings for pasta and whose mother still mailed him socks at Christmas.

Paul stopped walking. The boy kept going, disappearing around another corner. Paul didn’t follow.

He couldn’t. His feet were frozen. But not from the cold.

Birdy was leaning forward now, listening, laughing at something the guy said. Her eyes were bright. Her posture relaxed.

She looked… happy.

His fingers flexed at his sides. The ten digits felt useless without something to hold on to. Without something to do.

Was this why she hadn’t answered his email?

Was she moving on?

Had she already moved on?

He hadn’t been prepared for this.

He hadn’t realized, not until right now, just how much he wanted her to look at him like that—with happiness in her eyes.