Page 5 of False Start

I came to my senses once I’d driven about ten miles from the property, my breaths ragged and shallow as I chugged every last drop of water in the bottle I had in my car.

There was absolutelyno wayI could take on Kyle Robbins as a client.

I was firm in that decision, ready to text him and tell him so, and then immediately block his number. Maybe I’d give him a reference to someone else, as a last gesture of good will.

But when I pulled into my driveway and threw my car in park, my thumbs hovered over the keyboard on my phone screen, unable to touch down.

Because the commission I could make would be enough to change my life.

I’d been an agent for five years now, and I’d been getting by just fine. The first couple of years were the hardest, but it picked up after that, and I was making enough to do what I needed to do.

I paid my bills.

I saved every dime I could.

And most importantly, I took care of Sebastian.

I let my head fall back against the headrest at the thought of my six-year-old son, of the relentless drive I had to do anything andeverythingI could to protect him and make sure he was cared for.

The best way for me to do both of those things was to move him across the country, as far away from his father as I could.

But to do that, I needed more than I had saved now.Waymore.

I didn’t know how it happened, but somewhere in my real estate journey, I found a sort of niche — helping single mothers find homes for them and their children.

Maybe it was a way for me to protect others the way I wished someone would protect me.

But in that effort, my commissions had suffered. I was lucky to take home twelve-thousand dollars when I sold a house, and with how crazy the market had become, and how many realtors were fighting for business, I was closing maybe one house every two months.

It was decent money. I could get by. I could afford our house, our bills, and to scrape together a bit of a savings.

But if I helped Kyle buy a house, I would make close to two-hundred-thousand dollars when he closed.

That was life-changing money.

That was sell the house, pack our shit, and move across the country right now money.

My chest burned so fiercely I pressed a hand against the ache to try to soothe it, because I knew I couldn’t turn that down.

If I knew one thing about my ex-husband, it was that he was a lazy piece of shit. The only reason he continued to harass me was because it was easy to do so. I was right down the street. I still needed his help to care for our child.

But if I could change those two facts, I knew he’d leave us alone.

That made my chest ache even more, because what kind of monster would want to take a child from his father?

But I’d rather be that kind of monster than the one who lets her son witness his father abuse his mother.

I hated that word. I hated the feelings it stirred up inside me, like I was a victim when I didn’t sign up to be one.

But regardless of the fact that I’d managed to get a divorce, I still couldn’t fully escape him — not when we had a kid together. The courts, at least, had the mercy to set strict guidelines in place for when he could see Sebastian and for how long.

He’d never laid a hand on Sebastian. He doted on his son, actually, which was the only reason I tolerated co-parenting with him at all.

And unless I had proof of his abuse, there was no reason for the court to restrict visitation. Even if Ididhave proof, it might not even matter. Judges tended to look the other way as long as the child was okay.

Proof.

That was fucking laughable.