“Custody?”
Camille’s voice cracked, straight-up cracked, like her throat tore open just to spit the word out. The sound was jagged, ugly, way too loud in the thick, greasy air of the diner. Her chest thudded, not just a beat but a slam against her ribs, like her heart was trying to claw its way out. Her hand slipped on the edge of the booth—sticky. God, why was everything sticky? Why did it smell like old syrup and metal?
The lawyer’s stupid briefcase caught the light, all shiny and smug and cold—like a weapon, like something sharp enough to split her life in half. Ellie’s fingers were still wrapped around hers. Tiny. Cold. Trembling. Crayons scattered everywhere—reds, blues, snapped yellows—like someone dropped a body and all its pieces fell wrong. Camille’s throat burned. Her vision bl
