Cold Springs by Rick Riordan Page B

handcuff her.”
    Ann pressed her fingertips to the desk, as if gathering strength from the wood. “Chadwick, thank you. I knew you'd find her.”
    “Handcuffs,” Norma said. “He puts your daughter in handcuffs, and you're thanking him.”
    Norma wore a black dress, as if she'd never changed from the funeral. She looked cold, beautiful in a stark way, like a black and white picture of herself. Friends and former colleagues had kept Chadwick updated about her new life, even when he didn't want to be. He knew about her degree in accounting, the connections John Zedman had made for her, the multimillion-dollar funds she now managed. He knew she'd taken John's place as development director for the school after the Zedmans' divorce, and kept up her friendship with both of them.
    Chadwick tried to believe that he'd ever touched this woman, ever been close to her, raised a child, shared a life. The whole idea now seemed alien. A bomb had been dropped on that existence—a holocaust of grief so powerful that it sucked all the air out of the old house on Mission—love, anger, memories—creating a vacuum where nothing could live, even hate, without becoming irradiated.
    “Norma,” Ann said softly. “Let's finish business later.”
    “She has no money.” Norma's eyes blazed at him. “I want you to know that, Chadwick. She's been to court three times to keep custody of Mallory. She's mortgaged her house.”
    “Norma—” Ann tried.
    “The woman is busting her ass raising thirty million dollars for her school, trying to help kids. Meanwhile, she's scraping to pay her PG&E bill. Now you've sold her on this fucking wilderness school, and she has no money to pay for it. I hope that makes you feel good.”
    “Ann called me,” Chadwick said.
    Norma slapped the laptop closed. “I tried to talk her out of it. I tried to convince her what I knew a long time ago, Chadwick—the only good thing you ever did was leave.”
    “I'm here to help Mallory,” he said. “Not argue with you.”
    She slashed out, raking her fingernails across his face.
“Cabrón.”
    Ann tried to take her arm, but Norma jerked away, knocking over a bottle of water.
    “You don't help children, Chadwick,” she said. “You steal them. You're a goddamn child-stealer.”
    She pushed past him on her way out. If there'd been an office door, Chadwick was sure she would've slammed it.
    Chadwick felt the warmth of blood making its way along his jawline. He took a tissue out of his pocket, dabbed it against his cheek.
    “I'm sorry,” Ann said. “I didn't know you were coming.”
    Chadwick's legs were shaking. All week long, chasing children, talking them out of suicide, dragging them screaming through airports—that he could handle. But a few minutes with Norma, and he was a basket case.
    His eyes strayed to the sleeping bag rolled up in the corner, the carryall tucked between the wall and the fax machine. “You camping out here?”
    He meant the comment to express concern.
    But when Ann looked at him, an uninvited memory flashed between them—an August night a decade ago, at Stinson Beach, two sleeping bags spread out on the sand dunes. They had stayed up all night at the faculty retreat, watching the Big Dipper rise over the Pacific. They had talked of a life that might've happened, had they been wiser when they were younger—a life that was impossible now that they both had families. And yet they'd pretended otherwise, that night.
    “I'm not living on the street, yet,” Ann said, “if that's what you mean. I stay here overnight sometimes to get my work done.”
    “Cold Springs costs two thousand a month.”
    “I know that.”
    “The average stay is one year.”
    “Why are you discouraging me?” Her voice was getting smaller. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to call you—to admit I need help with my own daughter?”
    “I think I might have some insight.”
    Her ears tinged with red. “No, Chadwick. No. I
hate
what you do for a