Chapter 3 - The Early Flight
The sound of Maris’s heels clicking against the hardwood hallway felt like a countdown clock.
Click. Click. Click.
"Gideon?" she called out again, her voice sounding entirely too bright, too cheerful for a woman who had supposedly driven ninety miles to an airport hotel only to turn around three hours later.
In the fraction of a second before she rounded the corner into the kitchen, my ER nurse training took over. Decades of split-second triage decisions kicked in. I didn't panic; I compartmentalized. I slid the digital voice recorder deep into the pocket of my jeans, wrapped my hand gently around Lumi’s trembling shoulder, and stood up, placing the little girl slightly behind me, shielding her from the doorway.
Maris appeared under the kitchen archway.
She looked immaculate, despite the late hour and the rain. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek chignon, her beige trench coat was unbuttoned to reveal a professional silk blouse, and her leather briefcase hung heavy over her left shoulder. But the moment her eyes locked onto us—onto Lumi’s tear-stained face and my rigid, unsmiling posture—the easy, practiced smile froze on her lips.
"Well," Maris said, her tone shifting seamlessly into amused annoyance. "Looks like someone didn't go to bed when she was told. I thought I made it clear before I left, Gideon. She throws tantrums if you give her an inch."
She dropped her briefcase by the kitchen island with a heavy thud.
"Her flight got canceled," I said. My voice was dangerously calm. It was the exact tone I used when checking the chart of a patient whose vitals were crashing while their family stood in the hallway asking polite questions.
Maris blinked. For a microsecond—just a fraction of a second—her composure slipped. Her eyes darted from my face down to Lumi’s white knuckles clutching my shirt.
"What?" Maris asked, recovering instantly with a light, melodic laugh. "Oh, the business trip? Yes, the client had a family emergency. I caught the last shuttle back. Honestly, it’s a blessing in disguise; I missed my little girl anyway."
She stepped forward, reaching out with manicured hands toward Lumi. "Come here, sweetie. Did you give your stepdad a hard time? Did you cry for him again?"
Lumi flinched violently, burying her face into the side of my hip, her small body shaking.
I didn't move out of the way. I raised my hand, stopping Maris just short of touching her daughter.
"Don't," I said.
Maris’s hand hovered in the air. Her fingers twitched. The smile vanished entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating stare that I had never seen in the year we spent dating or the six weeks we had been married. It was the look of a stranger wearing a familiar face.
"Excuse me?" Maris said, her voice dropping an octave, losing all its sing-song warmth. "What did you just say to me?"
"I said, don't," I repeated, stepping forward until I was standing between her and the child. "Take your coat off, Maris. We need to talk."
"Gideon, you are being ridiculous," she scoffed, tossing her head back with an exasperated sigh. She walked past us toward the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of orange juice as if nothing was wrong, though her movements were stiff, jagged. "You let her manipulate you. I told you before I left. She pulls these waterworks when she wants attention. Now go upstairs, Lumi. Your bedtime was an hour ago."
Lumi didn't move an inch. She held onto my shirt like it was her only anchor to reality.
"She's not going anywhere," I said quietly.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the empty blister pack of prescription sleeping medication, and tossed it onto the kitchen island. It skidded across the laminate surface and clattered against the fruit bowl.
Maris stared at the plastic strip. Her breath hitched. The orange juice carton in her hand slipped slightly, splashing a few drops onto the counter.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice dangerously flat.
"That," I said, stepping closer to her, letting the full height of my six-foot-two frame tower over her, "is what you threatened to give your seven-year-old daughter if she told me why she was crying. That, and a digital voice recorder full of things a mother should never, ever say to a child."
The kitchen grew so silent I could hear the faint, erratic beating of Lumi’s heart against my side.
Maris didn't scream. She didn't cry. She slowly set the orange juice carton down, turned around, and looked at me with eyes that were utterly devoid of warmth.
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"You went through her bag," Maris whispered, her voice a lethal hiss. "You invaded our privacy. You have no idea what you've interfered with, Gideon."
"Try me," I said.
