Page 42 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Eighteen
KEANE
Istraighten my tie as the receptionist waves me into the conference room. Another new client, another story to untangle. I’ve barely skimmed the intake notes—civil dispute, vague mention of “emotional distress,” the usual preamble I’ve heard a thousand times. I remember glancing at his file before I left for camp.
The man stands, smooth as a cat, extending his hand.
“Vincent Marlowe,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
And my gut drops.
Because I know that name. I’veheardthat name, muttered late at night in Oren’s softer tones, cloaked in hesitation. Anex.One that still haunts him. I can tell by the way his voice shifts when he tries not to talk about it.
I shake Vince’s hand, my lawyer mask snapping into place even as my instincts flare like warning sirens. He’s polished. Tailored shirt, smug confidence, the whole “trust me” veneer. But I can already tell there’s venom coiled under his skin.
He launches into his story, spinning himself as the wronged party. Legalese dressed up with just enough self-pity to pull at a jury’s sympathy. I’ve seen men like him a hundred times.Charming. Clever. Dangerous in the way they twist narratives until truth looks like a lie and lies sound like gospel.
And every word he speaks, every glint in his eye, screams one thing: this isn’t about damages. It’s aboutOren.
I sit there, pen tapping against my pad, while my mind runs in circles. I’m supposed to be impartial, paid to do my job, not form opinions and take sides. But this isn’t just another case. This is Oren’s past clawing its way back into his present.
And God help me, the thought of that man circling Oren again makes my protective instincts surge hard enough to rattle me.
Vince thinks he’s found himself an ally in me. What he doesn’t know is that all he’s done is light a fire. Because if he wants to play games with Oren’s life, he’ll have to go throughme.
And. I. Play. To. Win.
I wait until Vince’s imported car slides off down the block before I exhale. My shoulders ache from holding them stiff. Every instinct screamsthreat, even if he hides it under his tailored smirk and curated charm.
I thumb my phone. One ring. Two.
Then Oren’s voice spills through the line, bright and a little distracted, as if he’s scribbling something instead of paying attention. My body loosens instantly.
“Hey, kiddo. Just checking in. You all right?”
“I’m fine,” he says, too fast. Then, softer, “Working.”
I smile even though he can’t see it.
“Of course you are. How would you like a new rule tonight?Show and tell.I want you to pick something that makes you feel safe and tell me why. Doesn’t matter what it is. Deal?”
After a pause, his voice drops into that sweet, shy place.
“I can do that.”
“That’s my boy.”
The tension drains from my chest on a deep exhale.
“Also, ice cream date tomorrow if you can stay away from whipped coffee sugar comas. And Oren,” I add in my sternest Daddy tone, “I canseethat guilty grin through the phone, so don’t bother lying.”
There’s a sputter, then a mock gasp. “You can’tproveanything.”
“Busted.”
His laugh is high and warm, like bells, and I soak it in, tucking it away somewhere secret. Vince might want to drag shadows into Oren’s world, but I’ll keep him here, in the light, where he belongs.
