Page 61 of Velvet Chains

I laughed. “That’s cute,” I said. “Did you wash your hands before you did this?”

“Yes,” she said. I looked at her. “Okay, no.”

“Go wash your hands. I’ll finish up here,” I said, eyeing the precariously built stack of toast.

“Okay,” Rosie said. She dragged the little step stool from the side of the kitchen so she could climb up and wash her hands in the sink and I started sorting the toast tower she’d made into an edible and an inedible stack. The espresso machine growled as it started its scheduled brew for the day, waking me up a little more.

“Are you driving me to school today, mami?”

“I always drive you to school,” I said automatically, then froze.

Because I didn’t always. Not anymore.

Lately, Julian had taken her a few mornings a week, ever since we started this whole post-marriage civility experiment—“for Rosie’s stability,” we said, which was code for: “so we don’t murder each other before the custody agreement is finalized.”

Rosie was still scrubbing her hands at the sink like it was a science experiment. “But Daddy said he might pick me up later, if Valerie’s doctor thing ends early.”

Right. Valerie, the doctor-slash-goddess of moral high ground. Of course she had a “doctor thing.”

“I thought Valerie was an administrator,” I said.

Rosie scrunched her nose. “Daddy said she oversees the Emergency Room. I think that means she’s a doctor. Can she be both?”

“Yeah, I think she has to be.”

“Like you’re a lawyer and the DA.”

“Exactly. One depends on the other,” I said, putting a plate of toast in front of her. “Go get the orange juice from the fridge, amor.”

“Okay!” Rosie jumped off the stool cheerfully. I looked at my phone as she did, opening my calendar up. My day was crazy and it finished late. These were just the meetings I knew about.

Back-to-back meetings, a court appearance, a prep session for the Fulton case, and a sit-down with the city comptroller’s office about the uptick in overtime claims. And if the agents working the Callahan case decided to “drop by,” I was going to scream.

Or drink.

Or both.

“Got it!” Rosie called, holding the orange juice triumphantly like she’d slain a dragon for it.

“Gracias, mi amor.” I poured her a glass and kissed the top of her head before taking a long, desperate sip of my espresso.

“You look tired,” she said, peering up at me like a concerned intern.

“I am tired.”

“Because of work?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. Work.”

Not the man who got on his knees in my foyer. Not the man who left me aching and hollow. Not the man who—

“Can I tell you a secret?” Rosie asked suddenly, leaning in.

I blinked. “Always.”

She cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered, “I think Valerie might be a witch.”

I blinked again.