Brice pushed himself up carefully, the mattress shifting under his weight. His clothes were scattered across the floor. Pants inside-out near the door. His hoodie draped over a chair. One shoe by the closet, the other nowhere visible.
The woman sleeping next to him didn’t stir.
He stood, his legs unsteady, and gathered his clothes in the semi-darkness. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, battery probably dead. He moved towards the kitchen, his feet cold against the ceramic floors. His eyes were still practically closed as he worked the coffee machine, working on auto pilot before sitting down at the kitchen table, resting his head against his arm.
"Yeah, yeah," he said to the empty kitchen, "That was pretty fucking stupid."
The coffee maker beeped three times but Brice ignored it.
"I’m just a man," he added before getting up, retrieving a mug from one of the drawers, pouring the coffee into it. Black, no sugar, no cream. The mug was warm in his hands. He carried it to the island, settling onto one of the stools, his elbows on the counter.
The pill organizer sat where he’d left it the day before. Sunday’s compartment still full. He popped it open, shaking the supplements into his palm. Green powder mix for inflammation. Omega-3s. Vitamin D. Probiotics.
He swallowed them dry, chasing them with the coffee.
“I know, I know.” Brice took another sip. “You don’t have to say it.”
The coffee maker hummed in response.
“I fucking sailed that interception,” Brice changed the subject. “Like really fucking bad, probably my worst throw of the year, given the context."
The refrigerator kicked on, its low hum filling the silence.
“They’re three and fucking eight, man. We shouldn’t have needed overtime,” Brice’s thumb traced the rim of his mug. “But you have to admit, that was a pretty fucking insane comeback. Good thing for fucking Justin. We’re going to need him in the playoffs."
He drank more coffee, the bitterness coating his tongue.
“Two more games. That’s all we need to get through. Indiana next week, then whoever we play in the championship. Two games and we’re in.” His voice dropped lower. “I just don’t want to fuck it up, you know? Did all of this shit for no reason."
Brice set down his mug, his hands flat on the counter. The granite was cold under his palms. He could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, the kind that sleep wouldn’t fix because it wasn’t really about being tired.
“I really don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, do I?" Brice admitted.
Footsteps.
Brice’s head turned. Serena stood in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep.
“Morning,” she said, moving toward the coffee maker.
“Hey.”
She pulled a mug from the cabinet, the coffee maker still half full. She poured slowly, not looking at him, giving him space to explain or not explain.
Brice picked up his mug again, taking another sip even though it had gone lukewarm.
“You sleep okay?” she asked, still facing the counter.
“Yeah.”
“Liar.” She turned now, leaning back against the counter, both hands wrapped around her mug. "You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m just saying.” she took a sip of her coffee, her expression neutral. “You could use some sleep."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Fair enough," she let out a wry chuckle as she moved to the island, settling onto the stool beside him. "Sounds like Saturday night was pretty lit too."
Brice’s fingers tightened around his mug.
“I was just out with the team,” he said finally. “Celebrating the win.”
“Where?”
"Just a bar."
“Just a bar," Serena nodded slowly, her eyes still on his face. She took another sip of coffee, the silence stretching between them.
“And after?” she asked, her tone carefully casual.
“After what?”
“After the bar.”
“Came home.”
“Pretty late?"
Brice set down his mug, the ceramic clinking against the granite. “I would think so. Didn’t really look at the time. Does it matter?"
“Just curious.” she shrugged. “You didn’t answer any of my texts.”
“Phone died.”
“Right.”
The word hung there. Brice’s jaw clenched. He could feel the irritation rising in his chest. He was expecting this to continue but nothing came. She just got up, rinsed the mug and set it in the dish rack before turning back to face him.
“You want to hang out today?” she asked. “I don’t got shit until 3."
"Gonna be pretty busy today. The whole week actually."
“Right. The last game.” She nodded. “Big one.”
“Yeah.”
Serena moved back to the island, her hands resting on the counter across from him.
“I could make you breakfast,” she offered.
“Sure,” he shrugged, "Appreciate it."
Her smile widened, genuine relief flashing across her face before she controlled it. “Okay. What do you want?”
“Whatever’s easy.”
“Eggs? Toast?”
“Sounds good to me."
…
Connie’s pen hovered over her notebook, the tip resting against blank paper. Professor Klein’s voice droned on about tort reform, something about legislative responses to medical malpractice, but the words slid past her without sticking.
She’d written the date at the top of the page. That was it. Thirty-five minutes into the lecture and one line of notes.
Her leg bounced under the desk, a rhythm she couldn’t control. The girl next to her shifted, annoyed by the movement. Connie forced her leg still. It started again ten seconds later.
The lecture hall stretched out before her, rows of students all facing forward, all presumably absorbing information that would matter on the final. Connie stared at the back of the head in front of her.
Her phone sat in her bag beside her chair. She could feel its presence like a weight, pulling her attention away from the professor, away from the notes she wasn’t taking, away from everything except the urge to check it.
She lasted another five minutes.
Her hand reached into her bag slowly, quietly, fingers finding the phone and pulling it onto her lap. The screen lit up. No new messages. She opened her browser, her thumb moving automatically to the search bar.
Adoption records Indiana.
The results loaded. She’d seen them all before. Government websites. Legal advice forums. Private agencies with carefully worded FAQs. Nothing helpful. Nothing that told her what she actually needed to know.
Professor Klein said something that made the class laugh. Connie didn’t look up.
Her leg was bouncing again. Faster now. The girl beside her let out a small huff of irritation. Connie didn’t care. She locked her phone, shoved it back into her bag, and started gathering her things.
The notebook went in first. Then her pen. Her water bottle. The textbook she hadn’t opened.
She stood, her chair scraping against the floor. A few heads turned. Professor Klein paused mid-sentence, his eyes finding her in the sea of students. The lecture hall had stadium seating. Each step down echoed. Twenty rows of students watching her descend. Her face burned but she kept moving, her bag heavy on her shoulder, her eyes fixed on the exit.
The door closed behind her with a soft click. The hallway was empty and quiet. She pulled out her phone again, her fingers moving across the screen before her brain fully decided what to do.
The message sent. She didn’t read it back, just shoved the phone into her jacket pocket and started walking.
The campus paths were busy with students moving between classes. Connie wove through them, her hands in her pockets, her head down. The dorm was a ten-minute walk. She made it in seven.
Her phone buzzed as she reached the building entrance. She pulled it out, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“sure no problem, put whatever you can in the tank please, thank you!”
Relief flooded through her chest. She typed back a quick thanks and pushed through the door into the building.
The stairs were faster than the elevator. She took them two at a time, her bag bouncing against her hip. Third floor. Down the hall. Her key was already in her hand when she reached her door.
The apartment was empty. Her roommate had an afternoon lab that ran until five. Connie dropped her bag by the couch and moved straight to the kitchen.
The keys sat on the small table near the window, right where her roommate always left them. A single key on a ring with a small stuffed animal attached. Connie grabbed them, the metal cold in her palm.
She checked her pocket for her wallet. Still there. Her phone. Still there. Everything she needed.
The door clicked shut behind her as she left.
…
“We actually hung out for a bit. Went to a bar, talked. It was good.”
LaPenna’s pen moved across his notepad, the scratching sound filling the silence. He didn’t look up. “Good how?”
Brice shifted in his seat, his hands gripping the armrests. “I don’t know. Just... good. Like we were making progress or whatever. Being civil.”
“Civil.”
“Yeah.”
LaPenna set down his pen, his eyes finally meeting Brice’s.
“That’s important to you,” LaPenna said.
It wasn’t a question but it felt like it.
“I mean, yeah. Of course it is. For James.”
“James.” LaPenna leaned back in his chair. “How much time did you spend with him this weekend?”
Brice’s mouth opened, then closed. His brain scrambled for an answer that would sound better than the truth.
“I saw him after the game,” Brice said finally. “And Sunday morning before they headed back.”
“So a few hours total.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess.”
Brice’s leg started bouncing. “Look, it’s hard. I’m in season. I’ve got practices, film sessions, meetings. It’s not like I can just—“
“But you had time to go to a bar with Skylar.”
The words hung there. Brice’s leg stopped bouncing. His hands pressed harder into the armrests, the leather creaking under his grip.
“That’s different,” he managed.
“How?”
“Because—“ Brice’s throat tightened. “I don’t know. It just is. It wasn’t even my idea, my mom suggested we go and I felt like that was a good decision, right? Saying no wasn’t going to make things better between us.”
LaPenna picked up his pen again, writing something Brice couldn’t see. The silence stretched. Brice’s eyes moved to the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes left in the session. Twenty minutes that suddenly felt like hours.
“What are you thinking right now?” LaPenna asked.
“I’m thinking this is fucked up.”
“What is?”
“All of it,” Brice scoffed. “I can’t... I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like, every time I try to want to be there, my shit with Skylar gets in the way. Like I can’t separate the two things.”
“You feel like your relationship with Skylar prevents you from being a good father.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“Because?”
Brice could feel the frustration building in his chest, the same one that was always there whenever he though about it. “Because I fucked up. I made a mistake and now I’m stuck with it forever.”
“The baby is the mistake.”
“No," Brice quickly shot back. “Not the baby. Not James. Just... having a baby with her.”
LaPenna’s expression didn’t change. He just sat there, waiting, his pen resting on his notepad.
“There’s a difference,” Brice added, hearing how weak it sounded.
“What’s the difference?”
Brice opened his mouth. Nothing came. His brain reached for something, anything, that would make this make sense. That would justify the way he felt without making him sound like a complete piece of shit.
Nothing came.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice barely audible.
…
Connie stood just inside the entrance, her hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets, her fingers wrapped around the car keys she’d borrowed. This was her third stop. The hospital had been first, with its labyrinth of hallways and reception desks where every person she talked to looked at her with that same practiced sympathy before telling her they couldn’t help. Privacy laws. Sealed records. She’d need a court order. The adoption center had been worse somehow, the woman behind the desk explaining in a voice that was probably meant to be soothing that closed adoptions meant closed, that there were reasons these things were kept confidential, that maybe Connie should speak with a counselor about working through these feelings.
She hadn’t gone to a third place expecting different results. But her feet had carried her here anyway, to this building she’d tried to forget, with its scuffed floors and its waiting area full of people who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
Connie moved past the front desk, her eyes scanning the officers moving through the station. Some in uniform, some in plain clothes. None of them familiar. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Maybe he didn’t work here anymore. Maybe he’d transferred. Maybe—
There.
Near the back, standing by a filing cabinet, his shoulders slightly hunched as he sorted through papers. Older than she remembered, or maybe just more tired. But definitely him.
Her legs felt unsteady as she walked toward him. The distance seemed to stretch, every step taking longer than it should. He didn’t notice her approach at first, too focused on whatever he was filing.
“Officer Kavern?”
His head turned. His eyes found her face, and she watched the recognition dawn. His expression shifted immediately.
“Connie,” he said, her name coming out careful, measured. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Everything’s fine. I just—I need your help with something.”
The discomfort in his face deepened. His eyes moved past her, scanning the station, before returning to her. He set down the papers he’d been holding.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Follow me."
He led her through the station, past desks where other officers worked, past a break room where someone was microwaving something that smelled like shit. They reached a hallway lined with doors. He opened one, gesturing for her to enter.
The interrogation room was smaller than she remembered. A table in the center. Two chairs on one side, one on the other. The same industrial gray walls. The same mirror that was obviously two-way glass.
Connie stepped inside, and the memory hit her all at once. Sitting in this exact room, or one just like it. The statement she’d given. The one she’d taken back weeks later.
“Funny,” Connie heard herself say, forcing something like a laugh. “Last time I was in one of these, my whole life turned upside down.”
Kavern closed the door behind them. His expression softened slightly, just a fraction, but enough that she could see it. He moved to the chair across from her, settling into it slowly, like he was giving her time to change her mind about being here.
“So,” Kavern leaned forward slightly, his hands folded on the table between them. “How can I help you?”
Connie could feel her pulse in her throat, in her wrists, in her chest.
“I want to find my baby,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “The one I gave up for adoption.”
Kavern’s expression didn’t change.
“When was this?” he asked.
“Four years ago. Almost five."
Kavern nodded slowly, his hands still folded on the table. “And this was a closed adoption?”
“Yeah.”
“Through an agency I’m assuming?”
“Yeah. The one on Wilber. I went there earlier today. They wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“They can’t,” Kavern said gently. “Legally, they can’t give you that information without—“
“A court order. I know. They told me.” Connie’s grip on the table tightened. “But there has to be something. Some way to find out where she is."
Her voice cracked. She stopped talking, pressing her lips together hard, forcing herself to breathe through her nose.
Kavern was quiet for a long moment. Then he leaned back in his chair, his hand coming up to rub his jaw.
“Connie,” he started, then stopped. Started again. “I want to help you. I do. But what you’re asking for, it’s not something the police can just—“
“I know it’s not legal,” she cut him off. “I know I signed papers saying I gave up my rights. I know all of that. But she’s my daughter. And I need to know she’s safe. That she’s with people who actually want her. That she’s—“
The tears came anyway, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them. She wiped at them roughly with the back of her hand, angry at herself for crying, angry at Kavern for looking at her with that sympathetic expression, angry at everything.
Kavern pulled a tissue box from somewhere behind him, sliding it across the table toward her. She took one, pressing it against her eyes, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that she couldn’t quite control.
“I’m sorry,” she said into the tissue. “I’m sorry, I just—“
“Don’t apologize,” Kavern said firmly. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
She lowered the tissue, her eyes meeting his across the table. He looked tired. Sad, maybe. Like he’d had this conversation before, or one like it, and knew exactly how it was going to end.
“I can’t promise anything,” he said finally. “But let me see what I can do.”
