“She’ll come around,” I add, but wonder how long that’ll take.
Jessica’s voice rings through my speaker. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I know you said to hold your calls, but Mrs. Ketteman is on the line. She said she tried your cell and couldn’t get you. She’s demanding to speak to you and sounds upset.”
“Sounds like she’s coming around.” Pettit tips his head and I glare at him. “I’ve got a meeting here with the security team. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thanks again for this,” I motion to the file and pick up my phone after he leaves. “Angel.”
“It’s all them, I swear.” She’s crying into the phone, but not like she was crying last night. Today, she’s pissed—I hear the sting in her voice with just those few words. “They planned this whole thing. I hate them, Trig. I’ll leave the country before I let them lay a finger on Griffin. There’s no fucking way.”
I stand and start to stuff things in my bag, including the file on my father. “Your in-laws?”
“I hate them,” she cries.
“Where are you?”
The phone shuffles and I hear something break.
“Ellie, are you at home?” I demand.
“Yes. You promised me, Trig. I can’t lose him.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen. Sit tight.”
I hang up and quickly explain to Jessica that I’m leaving early for the second day in a row because of a certain Montgomery, and not the one for whom I work. I don’t spare her a look because I don’t give a shit what she thinks.
* * *
I pull up to the McMansion but can’t turn into the driveway. That’s because there are trucks—moving trucks, three of them—blocking the way, all pulled through the circle drive. Her front door is standing wide open and men are moving in and out of the house.
What the fuck?
I park and stalk up the drive and stop someone carrying a lamp. “What are you doing with that?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Moving it.”
I look at all the shit sitting on the driveway—dressers, nightstands, dining room chairs, even a china cabinet. Next to them are boxes and boxes, stacked high.
What the hell’s going on? I left her just five hours ago.
I move through the open front door. Her dining room, which was full of fancy shit the last time I was here, is now empty. I turn and look through the glass French doors and so is the office. The only thing in the room is a printer, sitting alone on the floor with wires tossed in a dusty corner.
“Ellie?” I yell from her front door.
“Ma’am, do you want us to box up the mattress?”
“I don’t care. No, wait. Burn it!” she demands right as I walk around the corner and into her enormous kitchen. She’s standing there with Griffin on her hip and her other hand in a box of vanilla wafers. She stuffs one in her mouth right before shoving another one into the baby’s eager hands covered in sticky, cookie mush. I thought the banana was a mess this morning. And I doubt those cookies are organic.
“Angel?”
Her blue eyes zip to mine and I can tell she’s been crying. She chews up the cookie she just popped in her mouth and her eyes well again. I’m so fucking sick of seeing her cry.
I toss my phone on her kitchen counter and go to her sink, nabbing a paper towel and wetting it. When I get back to them, I smirk at Griffin, who seems to be constantly sticky, and proceed to wipe him down. “Baby, if you’re packing up to run away from me, I’ve got to admit, that hurts my feelings.”
She doesn’t hesitate and grabs a stack of papers sitting on a large manila envelope. “I was served, Trig. I didn’t think it could get any worse. Robert’s parents have filed for grandparent visitation rights. I didn’t even know that was a thing.”
I finish cleaning up Griffin as he twists and turns, trying to escape the wet rag, and take the papers from her. Skimming and flipping through to the end, even without reading the fine print, she’s right. Teresa and Carl Ketteman have filed for visitation rights of their grandson. And from first look, they’ve cited the CPS visits and have somehow found out about the marijuana charges.
Shit.
