Page 114 of Moonlighter

“Yet the evidence suggests otherwise,” Max clips.

“I lost my shit thatonetime.” He shakes his head. “Tell me what to do, okay? How can apologize to her? I want to meet my kid someday.”

“You have two choices,” Max says. “Take her to court. She’ll tell a room full of people what you did, and show them the photo of her eye swelled shut. You’ll probably lose, though.”

Tatum puts his head in his hands.

“Or you can sign the papers, so that Alex feels safe. And you can get therapy and accept what an asshole you’ve been. And try to make your case to Alex, through her lawyers.”

Tatum rises off the sofa, a beaten man. “You want both documents signed? Fine.” He brushes past Max, slouching over to a desk in a corner. There’s a folder on it, which he flips open. He grabs a pen out of a polished brass pencil cup and hastily signs his name on two different pages. “Here.” He shoves the paper back into the folder. In three paces he’s thrusting it at Max. “Take it. Full custody. You win. But she can keep her fucking money.”

“Wasn’t that the whole point of dating Alex?” Max asks. “To get your company funded?”

“No! And fuck you for saying so. We were supposed to be a team. A power couple. Sure, I wanted her family’s support. But not like this.” He shoves the folder into Max’s abs. “I don’t want her blood money. But I do want to meet my kid. You tell her that.”

“This says you can’t.” I reach over and take the folder from him, flipping it open to make sure he signed the affidavit, too. “Hey, it’s supposed to be notarized.”

“I’m a notary,” Max says. “I got it.”

“A rubber stamp doesn’t mean shit anyway,” Tatum snarls. “Just like signing that thing doesn’t mean I’ll forget my kid exists. I willalwaysbe that baby’s father. You can’t change that with money or visits from the goon squad.”

I wish he weren’t right. “Stay away from Alex.”

“You call her lawyer if there’s something you want to say,” Max adds.

He deflates. “Message received. You got what you wanted. So now you can get the hell out of my apartment.”

“Don’t call,” I say quietly. “If you do, I’m the one who’s going to answer.”

Tatum just gives me the kind of glare that would be fatal if laser eyes were a real thing.

Max takes the folder out of my hands. “All right. Thank you for this. Alex appreciates your cooperation. Just out of curiosity, where were you last night?”

“At a restaurant in the east twenties,” he says. “NoMad on twenty-eighth.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Ten?” he shrugs. “Then I came home.”

“Okay,” Max says quietly. “I hope for your sake that’s true.”

And that’s the last thing anybody says until Max and I show ourselves out.

We leave by the back door of the building, walking toward Max’s sports car. “Good job in there,” Max says. “Do you believe him about last night?”

“Yup,” I say tightly. “So who the fuck was on that motorcycle? And who broke in?”

Max just shakes his head.

30

Eric

“Great work today,”Chip says, as always. He’s setting up the stationary bike for our last exercise. “The left knee has good extension. Good flexion. I told you this was going well.”

“Yeah you did.” Although I’m still weeks away from competing. But it’s late November, and—God willing—my team will still be skating into June.

And then there’s my other knee. “Hey, Chip? Can I ask you something?”