Page 83 of Override

My eyes move back to the timeline. Visit after visit. Injury after injury. Excuse after excuse. The mouse creaks beneath my grip.

I don't even realize how hard I'm squeezing it until my knuckles bleach white. "You son of a bitch..."

The words come out low. Barely more than breath. Because all I can see now is Maeve sitting on the bathroom floor with tears running silently down her face.

Trying so damn hard not to let anyone hear her cry. My stomach turns.

He did this. Over…and over... and over again.

Rage spreads through me so fast it almost burns.

Not the reckless kind. The cold kind. The kind that makes your hands steady while your mind starts calculating exactly how much damage you could do.

Before I can reconsider it, I grab my phone and text Callum.

Me:

Need to talk.

The response comes less than thirty seconds later.

Callum Rizzoli:

At Layla’s dance studio tomorrow afternoon.

Come by.

***

The second I step into the dance studio lobby, chaos hits me head-on.

Tiny ballet shoes slap against hardwood floors while a herd of six-year-olds explodes through the double doors in a blur of glitter, oversized dance bags, and pure uncontrolled energy.

My instincts activate automatically.

Exits. Parents. Unknown adults. Potential threats.

Years of training carve through the room before my brain even fully catches up.

One man near the vending machine distracted by his phone. Mother gathering twins near the front desk. Teenager asleep in the corner chair.

Then my eyes land on Layla.

And just like that—my pulse finally settles.

“Skee!”

She launches herself at me at full speed without even slowing down first.

Trusting me to catch her.

I do. Automatically.

She crashes into my chest in a whirlwind of sparkles and little-girl perfume while I hook one arm beneath her legs before she can hit the floor.

The outfit she’s wearing is absolutely criminal.

Rainbow tutu. Sequined jacket. Glitter sneakers.