Page 1 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
The bruises never show. That’s the thing about Evan—he’s too smart, too careful for that. Police academy training taught him exactly where pressure leaves marks and where it doesn’t. What can be explained away and what can’t.
“It’s not even seven yet,” I say, keeping my voice deliberately light as I pour coffee into his travel mug. “The party doesn’t start until two. We have plenty of time.”
Tyson’s seventh birthday party. Planned for weeks. Invitations sent, cake ordered, deposit paid on the bounce house that’s been all he could talk about for months.
“I told you.” Evan’s voice has that dangerous flatness. The calm before the storm. “I picked up an extra shift.”
“But you promised him.” The words slip out before I can stop them. A mistake. “I mean, he’s been so excited about you being there. Maybe you could come late? Just for an hour?”
He sets his badge on the counter with a deliberate click. “Are you suggesting I put our son’s birthday party above public safety, Golda? Above my responsibility to this community?”
The familiar script. My cue to backpedal, to apologize.
“Of course not.” I busy myself wiping down an already clean countertop. “I just thought?—”
“That’s the problem.” He steps closer, crowding me against the sink. “You’re always thinking. Always planning. Always trying to control everything.”
He isn’t shouting. Evan never shouts. He knows better. The neighbors might hear, someone might question. His eyes are the only thing that give him away, cold and flat while his voice stays perfectly even.
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” He adjusts his holster, a casual reminder of his authority. “I work to provide for this family. To keep this city safe. And what do I ask in return? Just a little respect. A little understanding. Is that really so much?”
The well-worn groove of this conversation feels like quicksand—the more I struggle, the deeper I sink.
“It’s not,” I agree, eyes on the floor. “Tyson will understand.”
“Will he? Or will you make sure he doesn’t?” Evan’s hand comes up, fingers gripping my chin to force my gaze to his. Not hard enough to bruise. Never hard enough to bruise. “What will you tell him, Golda? That Daddy doesn’t care? That Daddy doesn’t love him enough to be here?”
“I would never?—”
“Mommy?” Blythe’s small voice breaks the tension. She stands in the doorway, stuffed penguin clutched to her chest, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Is Daddy mad again?”
Again. The word hangs in the air between us.
Something shifts in Evan’s expression, a flash of genuine discomfort, quickly masked. He releases my chin, steps back. The performance of the perfect father slipping seamlessly into place.
“Not mad, princess.” His smile never reaches his eyes. “Just getting ready for work. Come give Daddy a hug before I go.”
Blythe hesitates, her four-year-old instincts warring with obedience. She takes one small step forward, then stops. “Tyson said we shouldn’t hug you when your face looks scary.”
A heartbeat of silence. Two.
“Did he now?” Evan’s voice goes dangerously soft. “And when did Tyson say that?”
My heart stutters. “Evan?—”
“I asked a question, Golda.” He doesn’t look at me, gaze fixed on our daughter. “When did Tyson say that, Blythe?”
“Yesterday.” Her voice shrinks to a whisper. “When you were yelling about the broken glass.”
The glass. A single tumbler, knocked off the table during dinner. Tyson’s eyes wide with terror as Evan’s mask slipped, just for a moment.
“I see.” Evan checks his watch. “I’m going to be late. We’ll discuss this when I get home.”
We’ll discuss this. The familiar dread coils in my stomach.
I walk him to the door, the perfect dutiful wife, Blythe hiding behind my legs. He kisses my cheek—a performance for our daughter, for the neighbors who might be watching, likely even for himself.
“Consider what example you’re setting for our children,” he murmurs against my ear. “Teaching them to fear their father. To disrespect authority.”
The door closes behind him. I count to sixty, watching through the peephole until his car disappears down the street. Only then do I allow myself to fully exhale.
“Mommy?” Blythe tugs at my shirt. “Is Daddy coming to Tyson’s party?”
“No, baby.” I lift her up, breathe in the sleep-warm scent of her hair. “Daddy has to work. But we’re still going to have so much fun, okay?”
She nods, already distracted by the prospect of cake and presents. “Can I wake up Tyson now?”
“Let him sleep a little longer.” I carry her to the kitchen, mind racing. “How about we make special birthday pancakes?”
As I mix batter and heat the griddle, my thoughts circle. We can’t keep living like this.
I can’t keep pretending this is normal, that constant fear of saying the wrong thing is just what marriage is, what being a police wife means.
Can’t keep watching my children learn to navigate their father’s moods, to make themselves smaller, quieter, less inconvenient.
The voice recorder app sits unopened on my phone, downloaded weeks ago in a moment of clarity, unused in moments of doubt. Is it really that bad? Am I overreacting? What would happen to the kids if we left? Would anyone believe me—the wife of a decorated officer—over him?
“Can mine have chocolate chips?” Blythe asks, standing on her stool to peer at the griddle.
“Birthday pancakes always have chocolate chips,” I assure her, forcing a smile. “It’s the rule.”
My fingers trace the inside of my elbow, the unmarked skin that bore the brunt of yesterday’s “discussion” about the broken glass.
No bruises. Never any bruises. Just the phantom pain of fingers digging in, of being held in place while he explained, reasonably and calmly, how disappointing I am.
How lucky I am to have him. How no one else would put up with me.
In the other room, Tyson’s bedroom door creaks open. His footsteps, cautious on the hallway floor.
“Mom?” he calls. “Is Dad gone?”
The hesitation in his voice and the relief when I confirm Evan has left hardens something inside me.
I can’t leave today. Not on Tyson’s birthday. Not without a plan.
But somewhere between pouring pancake batter and lighting birthday candles, I make a silent promise to my children and to myself.
I open the voice recorder app, set it to automatically save to my cloud account, and slip the phone into my pocket.
GOLDA: One Year Later
The lawyer’s office is a necessary evil in this process, but I would rather be anywhere else.
I clutch my folder of documents—bank statements, text messages, the carefully preserved audio recordings—like a shield.
Outside the conference room windows, Seattle drizzles gray persistence onto the streets below.
“Mrs. Gannett,” I say into my phone, trying to keep my voice steady, “I understand Tyson needs to be picked up, but I’m in the middle of?—”
“He threw up twice,” the school nurse interrupts. “It’s school policy. He needs to go home.”
I close my eyes briefly. Of course today, the day of the final divorce mediation, the day that took three reschedulings to arrange, the day that stands between me and the possibility of actual freedom.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” I end the call, already calculating childcare options that don’t exist.
My lawyer, Jessica, looks up from her notes. At twice my hourly rate, her time is considerably more valuable than mine. “Problem?”
“Tyson’s sick at school. I need to get him.”
She checks her watch. “Evan and his lawyer will be here in fifteen minutes. We’ve waited two months for this meeting.”
The implicit question hangs in the air: couldn’t someone else handle it?
But there is no someone else. Not anymore.
My parents are in Arizona. The few friends who stuck around after I left Evan are working their own jobs, managing their own lives.
The carefully constructed support system of playdates and carpools I’ve built over the past year functions beautifully for planned events, less so for sudden illnesses.
“I’ll call Evan,” I say, though the words feel like surrender. “Ask him to reschedule.”
Jessica’s skepticism is professional but palpable. “That would be the fourth time. Judge Willis isn’t going to look favorably on another delay.”
She doesn’t need to spell it out. Evan’s lawyer is already painting me as unstable and uncooperative. Each postponement strengthens their narrative that I’m the problem, the unreasonable one.
I dial Tyson’s school instead. “Mrs. Gannett? It’s Golda Adler again. Can Tyson lie down in the nurse’s office for another hour? I’m across town in an important meeting, but I promise?—”
“It’s policy,” she repeats, more gently this time. “And honestly, he’s pretty miserable. Poor kid’s asking for you.”
The last part breaks me. Eight years old and sick and asking for his mom, who’s sitting in a sterile conference room trying to legally extricate herself from his father.
“I’ll be right there.”
Jessica starts gathering her papers. “I’ll try to stall them, see if we can push back an hour.”
“No.” The decision crystallizes as I speak. “Tell them to start without me. You know our position on everything. I trust you.”
She looks startled. “Golda, this is your divorce. Your custody agreement. You should be here.”
“My son needs me more.” I’m already gathering my coat and bag. “Do what you need to do. I’ll sign whatever we discussed. Just... don’t let Evan steamroll you on the custody schedule.”
The elevator ride down feels like descending into a different reality, one where legal language and custody percentages give way to the immediate needs of a sick child. Rain speckles my face as I run to my car, Seattle’s eternal damp a fitting backdrop to the mess churning inside me.
My phone rings just as I pull into traffic. Evan’s name on the screen. I let it go to voicemail, hands steadier on the wheel than I feel inside.
Ten minutes later, navigating through downtown, it rings again. Jessica this time.