Chapter 166 When The Child Forgives Him
Valentina’s words hung in the hallway. The air turned cold.
Benedict Holloway is dead.
Tristan moved in front of me. His broad shoulders blocked my view of the open elevator. "Who intercepted the transport van?"
"We don't know yet," Valentina replied. She kept her hands in the pockets of her white trench coat. "The federal agents found the vehicle on a dirt road outside the city limits. The guards were knocked out. Benedict was gone. They found his body an hour later near the river."
I stared at the thick manila envelope in her hand. The man who orchestrated my mother’s ruin, the man who starved us in Port Sterling, was gone. I expected a rush of relief. I expected the heavy weight on my chest to lift. Instead, I felt nothing.
"Leave the file," I told her.
Valentina set the envelope on the console table near the door. She offered a single nod and stepped back into the elevator. The metal doors shut.
Tristan turned to face me. The lines around his eyes were tight with concern. "I am staying tonight. I will sleep on the couch. Until we know who hit the van, you and Elias need someone by the door."
I did not argue. The fight had drained out of my bones. I locked the deadbolt and walked to my bedroom without a word.
The next morning, the smell of burnt butter pulled me awake.
I walked down the hall, tying my robe. I stopped at the edge of the kitchen.
Tristan stood by the stove. He wore the same dark slacks from yesterday, but his white dress shirt was wrinkled and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He held a plastic spatula in his right hand. His left arm rested in its sling. He stared at the frying pan like it was a hostile board member.
Elias sat on a stool at the kitchen island, kicking his small feet against the wood.
"It smells bad," Elias noted.
"It is a work in progress," Tristan said. He scraped the edge of the pan. A blackened lump of batter flipped over, hitting the metal with a sad slap. "I am trying to make a bear."
"Bears are brown," Elias said. "That is black."
"It is a black bear." Tristan slid the ruined pancake onto a plate and set it in front of my son. He let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
I watched them from the shadows of the hallway. Tristan Johnston commanded billions of dollars. He could buy a restaurant chain with a phone call. Now, he was fighting a frying pan, desperate to impress a three-year-old boy.
Elias picked up a plastic fork. He poked the burnt lump. "Where is the syrup?"
Tristan blinked. He opened three different cabinets before he found the pantry. He grabbed the bottle and set it on the counter. He did not know where the plates were. He did not know where we kept the cups. He was a stranger in our home, but he was trying so hard to map the territory.
"You do not have to eat that," Tristan told him, his voice thick with defeat. "I can order food. We can get anything you want."
"No," Elias said. He poured a massive puddle of syrup over the burnt pancake. "I like bears."
He took a bite. He chewed for a long time. His face scrunched up, but he swallowed.
A tight, painful lump formed in my throat. I turned around and walked back to my room. I needed a moment to breathe. The anger I had carried for three years felt heavy and useless. Watching Tristan fail at something so simple, and watching my son accept the failure without judgment, broke a piece of my armor I thought was made of steel.
Later that afternoon, the rain started again. The sky turned a bruised gray.
I sat at my desk in the corner of the living room, reading through the final audit reports of the Whitmore assets. The numbers blurred together. My attention kept drifting to the floor rug.
Tristan sat cross-legged on the carpet. His long legs looked cramped. He winced every time he shifted his weight, the gunshot wound in his side still healing, but he did not complain. Elias had dumped a massive plastic bin of toys between them.
"This is the bad guy," Elias said. He handed Tristan a plastic dragon with a missing wing.
Tristan took the toy. "What is his name?"
"Just Bad Guy," Elias explained. He picked up a knight in silver armor. "And I am the good guy. I have a sword. You have to roar."
Tristan looked at the dragon. He let out a low, awkward sound from the back of his throat.
Elias frowned. "That is not a roar. That is a cough."
"I am out of practice," Tristan admitted. He tried again, a little louder.
"Now I hit you," Elias said. He smashed the plastic knight against the dragon. Tristan dramatically dropped the toy onto the rug.
"I am defeated," Tristan declared.
Elias laughed. It was a bright, clear sound that filled the apartment. Tristan stared at him. The billionaire did not smile. He just watched my son with a look of absolute, agonizing wonder. He was memorizing the sound. He was cataloging the shape of Elias's smile because he had missed the first three years of them.
Elias dropped the knight. He crawled closer to Tristan and sat on his knees. He tilted his head, studying Tristan's face.
"Are you going to stay here now?" Elias asked.
The air in the room went still. I stopped typing.
Tristan lowered his hands to his lap. He did not look at me for help. He met Elias's gaze directly.
"I cannot stay here every night," Tristan answered. His voice was soft, stripped of any corporate polish. "Your mother and I live in different places right now."