The bell over the café door jingled as her date left. The sound was light and final, like a punctuation mark on a sentence that never really mattered.
Birdy watched him go. He hadn’t been awful—just forgettable. The kind of man who would list his qualifications in a dating profile and still think “emotionally intelligent” was a flex.
She turned back to Paul. He slid into the seat across from her like he’d always belonged there. He rested his elbows on the table and looked at her. He said nothing for a long while. The snow melted slowly into droplets on his jacket.
Birdy reached for her coat. “I should go. We’re on opposite sides of this case. It would be a conflict of interest if we….”
“We’re not on opposite sides. We both want what’s best for the baby.”
Birdy didn’t answer. The latte in front of her had gone cold, the foam collapsing in soft, curdled peaks. She pushed the cup away.
“I think I know who the father is,” Paul continued. “And I think he’s in trouble. More than he’s letting on.”
“The father isn’t my concern. My client is.”
“But the baby is the one who matters most.”
“What’s best for the baby,” she said, voice tight, “is being with her mother.”
Paul’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue. He just looked at her with that same frustrating mix of patience and challenge, like he was trying to hold space for both her fire and his logic.
“We don’t have to be enemies,” he said softly.
“I’m not your enemy,” she said. “I’m just not on your side.”
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Paul sat on the edge of his bed. The glow from his phone cast a soft light across the dark room. The rest of the world had gone still. There was just the occasional hiss from the heater and the muffled groan of wind slipping past the eaves.
The baby was back with the mayor and Bunny. The office was locked up. His work inbox was blissfully silent after a busy day. But his mind was loud.
There’d been three school meetings, two home visits, and a heated call with a foster parent who didn’t understand why a twelve-year-old might hoard granola bars under the bed. Then there was the mountain of paperwork: safety assessments, case notes, resource referrals, and the dreaded progress reports due by Monday. He’d reviewed a custody request flagged for suspicion and taken a call from a guidance counselor about a student showing signs of neglect. All of it necessary. All of it important. All of it exhausting.
But none of it compared to the echo of Birdy’s voice in his head. Or the weight of what he hadn’t told her at the coffee shop. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, phone cradled in the other, thumb hovering over the message app.
Birdy Chou—Mobile
It was still surreal seeing her name like that. It stared back at him in bold black letters, so official. So close. He hadn’t heard back from the email. No surprise.
Still… he wanted to try again. This time in a language she spoke fluently: the language of precision. And maybe a little provocation. He opened a new message and started typing.
PAUL:
Here's my issue withThe Justice Paradox. The verdict felt rushed. The way the author structured the courtroom scenes? That was masterful. She wrote chaos like someone who craves control.
He paused.Deleted the last line. It was too obvious. He typed again.
PAUL:
You said it was about the cost of telling the truth. I can see your point now. You were right.
Another pause.He could stop there. He should stop there. He knew that's what she was craving: validation. Instead, he added:
PAUL:
You were right about the truth-telling. But tell me why I’m wrong about the rest of it.
He read it over twice.Three times. Then he hit send.
