“I keep waiting for the phone to ring,” she said softly. “For another text. Another threat.”
“It won’t,” I said. “The numbers are blocked, and Julian has the injunctions in place.”
“Your mother’s friends,” she said. “They still look at us when we walk by the brownstone.”
“We don’t live in their world anymore,” I said. “We never really did.”
She reached out and took my hand, sliding her fingers between mine inside my coat pocket.
“We are going to build a different kind of home for him,” she said, looking down at our son.
“We are,” I said.
The wind stirred the dry oak leaves above us, a low rustle that sounded like dry paper.
“Let’s walk a little further,” Maya said, standing up without any of the old hesitation in her stride. “The sun is still high.”
I picked up the carrier, and we walked deeper into the park, away from the streets.
