A Reasonable Man
Roland met him on the back steps before Callum reached the door, all easy shoulders and reasonable voice, the voice he probably used on clients.
"Callum. You should've called."
"Where is Corinne?"
"Michigan. Her sister's. She needed space." Roland said it like a weather report. "You know how she gets."
"There's a locked cage in your backyard with my daughter in it."
Roland didn't flinch. "It's a playhouse. Talia's been having episodes. Biting, screaming, ran into traffic once. The doctor said structure helps."
"What doctor?"
"Dr. Feldt. I can get you the number."
There was no Dr. Feldt, not that day, not ever, though Callum wouldn't confirm that for another week. What he had instead was Talia, unlocked now, wrapped in his jacket, not crying, not talking, just watching Roland the way you watch a stove you already know is hot.
"She's coming with me tonight."
"She's not," Roland said, still pleasant. "You don't have custody this week. Check the agreement."
He was right, and they both knew it, and that was the worst part — that a man could build something like that in a backyard and still be the one holding the paperwork.
Callum backed toward the gate anyway, Talia's hand locked in his. Roland let them go. Of course he let them go. A reasonable man doesn't chase.
At the gate, Callum looked back once, past the cage, past the tree line, to the far corner of the yard where Corinne's rose bed used to end in a neat square. It didn't end square anymore. The border had been dug up and replanted, the soil mounded higher than the rest, dark and loose, like it hadn't had time to settle.
Corinne had planted those roses herself, three summers running, and she never once left a bed unfinished.
She would never have left it like that.
Unless she hadn't been the one who left.