He spins his fork in his noodles and looks down at his plate with a hardened jaw. “Are you seeing someone?” There’s an edge to his voice now.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

“Not saying it is my business. Just having a casual conversation.”

I don’t respond to that because it’s a lie. Any recently divorced husband asking his ex-wife if she’s seeing someone is making anything but casual conversation.

“I do think we need to have a more serious conversation at some point about dating,” he says. “Before either of us brings other people around Emerson. Maybe lay some ground rules.”

I nod. “I think we need to lay ground rules for a lot more than just that.”

His eyes narrow. “Like what?”

“Your access to my apartment.” I swallow. “I’d like my key back.”

Ryle stares stoically before he responds. Then he wipes his mouth and says, “I can’t put my daughter to bed?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“You know my schedule is crazy, Lily. I hardly get to see her as it is.”

“I’m not saying I want you to see her any less. I just want my key back. I value my privacy.”

Ryle’s expression is tight. He’s upset with me. I knew he would be, but he’s making this into more than it is. It has nothing to do with how much I want him to see Emmy. I just don’t want him having easy access to my apartment. I moved out and divorced him for a reason.

It’s not going to be a huge change, but it’s one that needs to happen, or we’ll be stuck in this unhealthy routine forever.

“I’ll just start keeping her overnight, then.” He says it with such conviction while eyeing me for a reaction. I know he can feel the discomfort I’m suddenly drowning in.

I keep my voice calm. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

Ryle drops his fork on his plate with a thud. “Maybe we need to modify the custody arrangement.”

Those words infuriate me, but I somehow prevent my rage from boiling over. I stand and pick up my plate. “Really, Ryle? I ask for the key to my apartment back and you threaten me with court?”

We agreed to this arrangement, but he’s acting like that was for my benefit rather than his. He knows I could have taken him to court for sole custody after everything he put me through. Hell, I never even had him arrested. He should be grateful I’ve been as generous as I have.

When I get to the kitchen, I set down my plate and grip the edges of the counter, allowing my head to drop between my shoulders. Calm down, Lily. He’s just reacting.

I hear Ryle sigh regretfully, and then he follows me into the kitchen. He leans against the counter while I rinse my plate. “Can you at least give me a timeline?” His voice is lower when he speaks. “When will I get overnights with her?”

I press my hip against the counter and face him. “When she can talk.”

“Why then?”

I hate that he even needs me to say this out loud. “So she can tell me if something happens, Ryle.”

When the full meaning of what I’ve just said sinks in, he chews on his bottom lip with a small nod. I can see the frustration in the veins that rise in his neck. He pulls his keys out of his pocket and removes my apartment key. He tosses it on the counter and walks away.

When he grabs his jacket and disappears out the front door, I feel that familiar twinge of guilt creeping into my chest. The guilt is always followed by doubts like, Am I being too hard on him? and What if he really has changed?

I know the answers to these questions, but sometimes it feels good to read the reminders. I go to my room and pull the list out of my jewelry box.

1) He slapped you because you laughed.

2) He pushed you down a flight of stairs.

3) He bit you.

4) He tried to force himself on you.

5) You had to get stitches because of him.

6) Your husband physically hurt you more than once. It would have happened again and again.

7) You did this for your daughter.

I run my finger over the tattoo on my shoulder, feeling the small scars he left there with his teeth. If Ryle did these things to me at the highest points of our relationship, what would he be capable of at the lowest?

I fold the list and put it back in my jewelry box for the next time I might need a reminder.

Chapter Five Atlas

“It was definitely targeted,” Brad says, staring at the graffiti.

Whoever vandalized Bib’s two nights ago decided to hit up my newest restaurant last night. Corrigan’s has two damaged windows, and there’s another message spray painted across the back door.

Fuck u Atlass.

They added an s and underlined ass in my name. I catch myself wanting to laugh at the cleverness, but my mood isn’t making space for humor this morning.

Yesterday, the vandalism barely fazed me. I don’t know if it was because I had just run into Lily and was still riding that high, but this morning I woke up stuck on her apparent avoidance of me. Because of that, the damage to my newest restaurant feels like it’s cutting a little deeper.

“I’ll check the security footage.” I’m hoping it reveals something useful. I still don’t know if I want to go to the police. Maybe if it’s someone I know, I can at least confront them before I’m forced to resort to that.

Brad follows me into my office. I power on the computer and open the security app. I think Brad can feel my frustration, because he doesn’t speak while I search the footage for several minutes.

“There,” Brad says, pointing to the lower left-hand corner of the screen. I slow down the footage until we see a figure.

When I hit play, we both stare in confusion. Someone is curled up on the back steps, unmoving. We watch the screen for about half a minute, until I hit rewind again. According to the time stamp on the footage, the person remains on the steps for over two hours. Without a blanket, in a Boston October.

“They slept here?” Brad says. “They weren’t too worried about getting caught, were they?”

I rewind the footage even more until it shows the person walking into the frame for the first time, a little after one in the morning. Because it’s dark, it’s hard to make out facial features, but they seem young. More like a teenager than an adult.

They snoop around for a few minutes—dig through the dumpster. Check the lock on the back door. Pull out the spray paint and leave their clever message.

Then they use the can of spray paint to attempt to break the windows, but Corrigan’s windows are triple-paned, so the person eventually gets bored, or grows tired of trying to make a big enough hole to fit through like they did at Bib’s. That’s when they proceed to lie down on the back steps, where they fall asleep.