It physically crippled me watching O laugh with Olive and Olive fall in love with O. They’d been thrown together by a mad man—two, including me—and that bond only grew stronger the longer we stayed in O’s tiny apartment.
I knew I couldn’t let them get any closer. I was only setting Olive up for yet more heartbreak if I did. O was leaving on a jet plane, and Olive would soon have to face my disappearance for a second time. Plus, O couldn’t be expected to share her heart with a child created by our old teacher and me.
But knowing all that didn’t mean I could stop the inevitable connection they shared. The sweetness when Olive showed O how to blend watercolours, and the pride when O showed Olive how to dance.
Fuck, it would’ve been so perfect if O was mine.
We could’ve been a family.
A true, happy, perfect family.
Instead of this pretend pocket of time, both of just waiting for it to end, preparing how to tell Olive that life wasn’t fucking fair and her hardships weren’t over yet.
“Dad....Dad! You’re not painting.”
I snapped out of my thoughts, slamming back into the present where I hung with Olive across the street from O’s apartment. I hoped the distance from the approved flat and this park wouldn’t set off the sensor in my anklet.
Poor Olive had cabin fever.
We’d come to the tiny square between four busy roads to paint the fountain splashing over marble swans and lilypads.
I’d carried my portable easel, a selection of paints, and a packed strawberry jam sandwich—her favourite—and spent the afternoon while O was at work painting the sun-glittering structure with my daughter.
“Sorry.” I held up my paintbrush. To be fair, I wasn’t doing much. The sketch and slowly-coming-to-life painting was all Olive’s, and once again, I was blown away by her young talent.
She had the scale nailed. The shadows perfected. The bend of the swan’s neck lifelike.
“What’cha thinking about?” she asked.
I smiled, nudging her small shoulder with mine. I didn’t have chairs, so we’d set the easel low so we could sprawl on a blanket. “Nothing much. Just how talented you are.”
“Nah, I’m not nearly as good as you.”
“You’re getting close.” I eyed up the way she blended white, blue, and black to make a shade of grey so similar to her eyes. “I’m very proud of you.”
She blushed. “You’re a good teacher.”
“Nope. It’s all you, kiddo.”
Her tongue stuck between her teeth as she shaded the swan’s neck. “O said she was proud of me too. She showed me another dance move this morning while you were still sleeping.”
“She did?”
How the hell did I not hear them?
“Yep. In her room. She said I have good balance.”
I pretended to shove her, jerking her back into place before she fell. “You do. Look how stable you are.”
She snickered. “Do you think we can stay with O? I really like living with her. She’s super nice.” Her sweet gaze met mine. “I like her and you like her. I know you do. You more than like her. But you’re sad too.” Her head cocked, sending shiny hair over her shoulder. “Why are you sad? Don’t you like living with O and me? Do you want to go back to the warehouse?”
I swallowed the sudden obstruction in my throat. I’d long ago learned not to be shocked at the intuition of children and their perception of the truth, but it still punched me in the chest. “I’m not sad. I’m so happy we’re together again.” Dropping my paintbrush into the water jar, I added, “And you know we can’t stay with O for much longer, right? This is only temporary. She has her own life to live, little spinach. And we’re not part of it.”
“We could be. She likes you too, even though she’s mad at you right now.”
I froze. “How do you know she’s mad at me?”
Had O talked to her?
She wouldn’t.
Would she?
Our drama was our own fault—my fault—and shouldn’t be dumped on a kid.
Olive scowled as if I was an idiot—which I was, so I couldn’t argue. “I know the way she talks to you. She really likes you, but you did something, and she’s mad.” She pinned me with a ruthless stare. “Whatever you did, you should apologise and then we can all move into a bigger place where we all have bedrooms and can be happy forever and ever.”
Shit.
This was getting bad.
Olive had attached herself way too much to O.
I should’ve taken her to Justin’s so she could bond to him instead. How the hell was I supposed to dump her on him when I got sentenced and expect her to be comfortable living with yet another strange man?
Fuck.
My phone rang, vibrating in my pocket.
I didn’t want to answer it.
Nothing good ever came from answering my goddamn phone, but I pulled it out and climbed to my feet. “I’ll be a sec, okay?”
Olive nodded, pinning all her attention on her painting again. “Okey-dokey.”
Pressing accept, I walked away, answering the unknown number suspiciously. “Hello?”
“Gilbert Clark?”
“Who’s this?”
“This is Brad Scott from Scott, Smith, and Grampton. I’m calling to inform you that a court date has been set, and you’re expected to be at the crown court in six days’ time at nine a.m. sharp. Please be presentable and prepared. I request we meet tomorrow to go over your testimony and explain in detail what to expect.”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
“Six days?” My heart sank to my toes. “That soon?”
“They’ve hurried your trial. These things happen with high-profile murder cases, especially when pressure is put on the system by the public.”
I rubbed my mouth, spinning to face Olive who sat innocently on the blanket. “How long with the trial take?”
“Not sure. Depends how much evidence there is to present. You’ll be subjected to a jury trial. Your verdict might be given that day or it might take a week or a month, who knows. I’ll be able to advise more once we’ve sat down, and you’ve answered my questions.”
“Questions?”
“We’ll run through a fake trial. I’ll pretend to examine you, you answer, we get our ducks in a row, and you’ll be prepared for the real thing. Sitting in a courtroom can be scary business, Mr. Clark. It’s my job to ensure you’re ready and nothing goes wrong.”
I couldn’t stop looking at my daughter.
I wanted to be fucking sick.
“What if I’m found guilty? Will I be sent to prison straight away?”
Brad made a noise; paper shuffled in the background. “I’m afraid so. It’s best to get your affairs in order and prepare your family, just in case.”
Pacing the soft grass, blanketed by warm sun, I asked as quietly as my nerves would allow. “Do you think I have a chance of walking out of there?”
After a long pause, Brad muttered, “You killed a man, Mr. Clark. It might’ve been in defense of Olin Moss being assaulted, but the fact remains, you took a life.”
“He held my daughter hostage for over a year.”