POV: Ivory
Three days. The CPS meeting was in three days, and Sue Cho had assembled the kind of file that should have made me feel safe — Catherine's statement, Ryan's evidence, character references from every direction.
It was strong, and it wasn't enough.
"The sleeping arrangement lie is still in the file," Sue said, her voice flat and direct.
"Catherine's statement neutralizes the complaint's origin, and Ryan's evidence establishes the pattern, but if Diana walks into that meeting already knowing you misrepresented where Kameron sleeps, everything else becomes context for a deception."
"So the statement doesn't matter?"
"It matters enormously — after. First she has to trust you, and right now she has notes from a home visit where she walked through a cottage that looked like a furniture showroom and you stood in the doorway and said nothing." Sue paused.
"Diana is smart, Ivory. She knows what an empty house looks like. Go to her yourself — don't let her find out in the meeting."
"You want me to walk into a CPS office and tell them I lied about where the father of my baby sleeps."
"I want you to walk in and tell her the truth before someone else's version of it gets there first. There's a difference between confessing and getting ahead of it, and right now you still have the chance to choose which one it is."
"And if she doesn't care about the difference?"
"Then we deal with that — but we deal with it from a position where you told the truth voluntarily, which is a different conversation than the one where she catches you in a lie."
I hung up and sat at the kitchen table with my hands pressed flat on the wood, staring at the cottage through the window.
That night the bed held two people where three belonged — Colt's side, my side, and the empty space where Kameron should have been.
Colt reached for me in the dark, and his hand found my face, then the wet on my cheeks I'd been trying to keep silent.
"You're crying."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine, and you're not crying about CPS." His thumb traced across my cheekbone. "You're crying about the bed."
"I miss him." The words came out cracked and raw, and I pressed my face into his palm. "I know that's not fair to say to you —"
"It's fair because I miss him too." Colt's voice was steady in the dark. "This arrangement is killing all three of us, and we're doing it for a file that might not even matter after Thursday."
I pressed my face into his palm and my throat closed around everything else I couldn't say.
Colt got up and pulled on boots, then walked out without a word.
Footsteps crossing the yard, the cottage door, then low voices — too quiet to hear, just the sound of two men who didn't need volume because the subject was already understood.
Two sets of footsteps coming back. Kameron in the bedroom doorway, silhouetted against the hall light.
"One night." Colt behind him, quiet and certain. "I don't care about the file."
"Kam —"
"Don't argue." Kameron's voice was rough from sleep but his eyes were clear. "He showed up at the cottage and told me to get in the house, and he's right, so move over."
Kameron climbed in and his body curved around mine — warm, solid, his arm wrapping around my belly.
Colt's hand found mine across the pillow, and the baby kicked against Kameron's forearm, and for the first time in weeks the bed was right.
"There she is," Kameron said against my hair, his hand pressing flat where the kick had landed. "She knows."
The alarm set for five — stolen time in our own home.
During the day, Luke tested Jolene — not dramatically, deliberately. He left his plate on the table without carrying it to the sink, didn't say thank you, looked directly at her and walked away.
Jolene picked up the plate, washed it, and said nothing.
Next day, rougher — he bumped past her in the hallway, left muddy boots where she'd just mopped, small provocations designed to find the breaking point where patience ran out and the real person showed up.
Jolene cleaned the floor again, moved the boots, and met his eyes once — not hurt, not reproach, just steady.
"You can keep doing this," she said, quiet enough that only he could hear. "I'm not going anywhere."
Luke stared at her for a long count, his jaw tight, and then he turned and walked to his room without answering.
But the next morning the boots were on the mat, and his plate made it to the counter, and neither of them said a word about it.
That week at the Marysville clinic, two pregnancies sat side by side in the waiting room. My visit was clinical — blood pressure 152 over 96, Dr. Chen's face holding the concerned expression I'd learned to read, preeclampsia monitoring, risk assessment.
"I need you to slow down, Ivory," Dr. Chen said, her pen tapping the chart. "These numbers are climbing, and stress is not something I can prescribe away."
"I know."
"Do you? Because every visit these numbers go up, and every visit you tell me you know, and nothing changes."
She set the chart down and looked at me directly. "I'm not asking you to eliminate stress — I understand your situation. I'm telling you that your body is keeping score, and at thirty-four weeks the score matters."
"What do you need me to do?"
"Rest. Delegate. Let someone else carry something for one week." She wrote on the chart without looking up.
"I'll see you in five days instead of seven, and if these numbers are still climbing we're talking about early monitoring."
Through the open door I could see Stella rubbing her belly and smiling at Ryan, who held her hand with the careful grip of a first-time father whose biggest concern was nursery color.
Stella caught my eye through the doorway. "How are you feeling? You look tired."
"I'm good — just the usual third-trimester complaints." I smiled, and it was real, and it cost me something. "How's yours?"
"Perfect so far." She beamed at Ryan. "We just found out it's a girl."
"That's wonderful, Stella." I meant it, and I carried the rest of it to the truck when I left.
Morning, early, house still sleeping. I got in the truck alone and didn't tell anyone where I was going.
Diana Reeves' office was thirty minutes down the road in the county building — gray walls, fluorescent lights, the institutional absence of anything personal. I parked and sat in the truck for three minutes with my hands on the wheel.
Then I got out. I was going to tell the truth.