Page 42 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
I feel Dex’s presence behind me before I see him. He’s moved to the kitchen doorway, listening.
“What would that involve?” I ask.
“Formal statement. Testimony if it goes to trial. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be powerful.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then he probably gets a slap on the wrist for what happened to your son and goes back to work in six months.”
The choice feels enormous. Stay quiet, keep my head down, protect what peace we’ve found. Or speak up and risk everything for women I’ve never met.
“I need to think about it,” I say finally.
Detective Gonzalez nods. “Take your time. But don’t take too long. Internal Affairs moves fast when they want to bury something.”
After she leaves, I sit at the kitchen table staring at the business card she left behind.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Dex says, sliding into the chair across from me.
“Just wondering how many other women are sitting in kitchens like this, trying to decide if they’re brave enough to speak up.”
“You’re already brave enough. You’ve been brave enough for years.”
“Have I? Because it feels like I just kept my head down and hoped he’d leave us alone.”
“You documented everything. You kept your kids safe. You left when you had to. That’s not keeping your head down—that’s survival.”
Maybe he’s right. But survival and bravery feel like different things.
“Mom?” Tyson appears beside my chair. “Are you okay? You look sad.”
“Just thinking about grown-up stuff.”
“Is it about Dad?”
I hesitate, then decide on honesty. “Yeah. It’s about Dad.”
“Are you going to tell other people about what he did?”
Smart kid. Too smart.
“I might. Would that be okay with you?”
He considers this with the same seriousness he brings to hockey strategy. “If it helps other kids, then yes. But what if it makes him mad?”
“He can’t hurt us anymore,” Dex says from across the table. “There are rules now that keep him away from you and your mom and Blythe.”
Tyson looks between us, processing. “Okay. Then yes. You should tell them.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
I pick up Detective Gonzalez’s card. “I guess I’m making a phone call.”
By the time Elliot arrives with promised wine and Chinese food, I’ve given my formal statement to Internal Affairs, scheduled testimony for next week, and somehow convinced Blythe that putting soy sauce on fried rice does not constitute “cooking” and therefore doesn’t require her supervision.
“How are you holding up?” Elliot asks, unpacking what appears to be enough food for a small army.
“Better than expected. Worse than I’d like.”
She nods like this makes perfect sense. “That sounds about right for a day like today.”
Brody’s with her, carrying wine and looking uncomfortable in the way men do when they know someone’s been through something terrible but don’t know what to say about it.
“How are the kids handling everything?” he asks, settling at the table.
“Tyson’s processing. Blythe’s asking a lot of questions. Both of them seem... relieved, I think. Like they’re finally allowed to say that their dad scared them.”
“Kids are resilient,” Elliot says. “More than adults usually give them credit for.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Dinner is surprisingly normal. The kids tell Brody and Elliot about their Lego project—some kind of castle with very specific architectural requirements that Blythe explains at length.
Dex teases Brody about something that happened at practice.
I eat lo mein and drink wine and try to remember what normal family dinners used to feel like.
This is better.
After the kids go to bed the four of us clean up and settle in the living room.
“So what happens now?” Brody asks.
“Legal stuff moves forward. I testify next week. We see what happens.”
“And if he fights the custody decision?”
“Then we fight back,” Dex says, no hesitation in his voice.
Elliot raises her wine glass. “To fighting back.”
“To fighting back,” we echo, and I realize that for the first time in possibly ever, I actually believe we can win.
Later, after Elliot and Brody leave, I’m loading the dishwasher when the exhaustion finally catches up with me. The adrenaline that’s been carrying me through the day just... stops.
“Whoa,” Dex catches me as I sway. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t coffee or wine?”
“Dinner, I think. Maybe.”
“You only picked at your dinner. Food first, then sleep.”
He makes me a sandwich—peanut butter and jelly because it’s apparently all my kitchen has to offer—and sits with me while I eat it.
“Thank you,” I say when I’m done. “For today. For all of it.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yeah, I do.” I meet his eyes. “You could have walked away. This morning, when Evan showed up, when you realized how complicated this was going to get. You could have decided it wasn’t worth it.”
“Never crossed my mind.”
“Not even for a second?”
“Not even for half a second.” He reaches across the table, takes my hand. “You’re stuck with me, Goldie. All of you.”
“Even when Blythe puts maple syrup on everything?”
“Especially then.”
I laugh, surprising myself. “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Fair enough.”
We head upstairs, and for the second night in a row, Dex helps me get ready for bed like we’ve been doing this for years. There’s something comforting about the routine, the normalcy of it.
In bed, he pulls me against his chest, and I listen to his heartbeat until my breathing slows to match his.
“Dex?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared about the testimony. About what happens if this gets public.”
“We’ll handle it. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve seen what you’re capable of. You left an abusive marriage, rebuilt your life, raised two amazing kids, and today you decided to take on a corrupt system to protect other women. If that’s not superhero stuff, I don’t know what is.”
I want to argue, to point out all the ways I’ve failed or been weak or made mistakes. But I’m too tired, and his arms are too warm, and for once in my life, I decide to just accept the compliment.
“Goodnight, Dex.”
“Goodnight, Goldie.”
I drift off thinking that maybe, finally, the worst is behind us.