Chapter 15 - The Window We Chose
Eight months later, I was on my knees with a drill in my hand when Nora walked into the room and told me I was doing it wrong.
"That one crooked," she said.
She was four now and had developed strong opinions about construction.
"It's not crooked."
She squinted at the board.
"Crooked."
Grace leaned into the doorway holding two grocery bags.
"She's right."
"Nobody asked you."
"That's never stopped me before."
Our new house was smaller than the mansion by an amount that seemed to offend every real estate agent I had met.
It sat on a quiet street in Manhasset, close enough to the girls' school that I could handle morning drop-off myself and close enough to Claire that she could visit without packing a suitcase.
There were no marble halls.
No west wing.
No service corridors.
The kitchen table seated six and did not require shouting to speak to somebody at the other end.
Olivia had chosen the house because of a wide upstairs window overlooking an old maple tree.
The window had no seat.
That was the problem I was currently making worse with a power drill.
Sophie came in carrying a level.
"Use this."
"I know what a level is."
She handed it to me anyway.
Sophie spoke at home now. At school, her voice still disappeared on hard days. Her therapist said progress did not move in straight lines.
I had learned not to demand straight lines.
Olivia had joined a children's choir in the spring, then quit after two rehearsals because too many adults told her how brave she was.
Three weeks later she asked to go back.
Nobody made a ceremony out of it.
Nora talked enough for all of us.
Sebastian had pleaded not guilty.
His trial was scheduled for winter.
His attorney continued to argue that the shooting began as an accident and that his later statements had been shaped by grief and pressure. The district attorney believed the second shot, the false alibi, his intimidation of the girls, and his actions afterward showed intent and consciousness of guilt.
I had stopped pretending the legal process owed me speed.
I would testify when called.
So would Claire.
So would Mrs. Donnelly.
The girls' participation would be decided with their advocates and prosecutors, not by me.
My own legal situation remained unresolved.
Frank's case had become part of a broader investigation into men who once worked for me. My attorney used words like exposure, cooperation, sentencing risk, and indictment.
I did not know where I would be a year from now.
That uncertainty used to feel unbearable.
Now it felt like a bill with my name on it.
I had earned the right not to know how much it would cost yet.
Most of the businesses that could survive clean books still existed. The rest had moved on without me or collapsed into other hands. Anthony Greco no longer called me boss. Sometimes he called me Dominic with enough sarcasm to make the point.
We were not friends.
We were not enemies.
Messy was becoming a word I trusted more than loyal.
Grace set the grocery bags on the floor.
"Claire's coming at six."
"I know."
"You bought enough food for sixteen people."
"There are six of us."
"Exactly."
I looked at the bags.
"Planning ahead."
Grace smiled.
I had not told her the phrase belonged to Isabelle.
I did not need to.
Some things could remain mine.
At five thirty, I finished the window seat badly enough that a professional carpenter would have sued me for damaging the reputation of wood.
Sophie tested it first.
"It doesn't move."
"High praise."
Olivia climbed up beside her.
Nora squeezed into the middle.
The seat was too narrow for all three, which meant they loved it immediately.
I went downstairs to start dinner.
Mrs. Donnelly's grilled-cheese criticism had turned into an unhealthy personal mission. I could now make six sandwiches at once without burning any of them.
Claire arrived with salad.
Grace opened wine.
Nobody sat at the head of the table because the table did not have a head.
Halfway through dinner, my phone rang.
My attorney.
A year ago, I would have answered before the second vibration.
I looked at the screen.
Then at Olivia, who was telling Claire about a girl at school who cheated at kickball. Sophie was quietly correcting every detail. Nora was trying to feed a piece of tomato to the dog Grace had somehow convinced me we needed.
I turned the phone face down.
A small red notification kept glowing against the tabletop until Nora reached over and covered it with her napkin.
"No work," she said.
Claire raised an eyebrow at me.
"House rule?"
"Apparently."
I left the phone where it was.
It could wait until after dinner.
Later, while I loaded the dishwasher, music drifted down from upstairs.
Soft at first.
Three voices.
Grace stopped drying a plate.
Claire looked toward the ceiling.
I did not move.
"You are my sunshine..."
The same song.
Not the same sound.
Fourteen months of silence had once made that melody feel like a door opening onto terror.
Now the girls missed words, argued over the verse, and started again because Nora insisted Olivia was singing too fast.
I dried my hands and went upstairs.
They were crowded onto the new window seat under a yellow blanket.
Olivia saw me in the doorway.
For a second I expected the singing to stop.
It did not.
She patted the narrow strip of wood beside her.
"Daddy, sit."
There was barely room.
I sat anyway.
The board creaked under my weight.
Nora laughed.
Sophie told me not to lean too hard on the left side because she still did not trust my screws.
Grace appeared at the doorway and handed me the level I had ignored earlier.
"Souvenir," she said.
I put it on the sill instead of arguing.
Outside, evening settled over the maple tree.
Inside, my daughters kept singing.
May you like
This time, I did not ask them to repeat a word.
I just listened.
