Page 61 of Nine Week Nanny
I focus on the tapping of his pen on the manila folder, my mind spinning. I realize now there is no sitting back until Camila is ready. I have to act.
My stomach tightens. "Chris hasn't been around for Lennon for most of his seven years. The kid barely knows him." My fists clench against the polished table surface.
"Unfortunately, that weighs less than the fact that he's a biological parent wanting custody. We will need more than conjecture, because the court will still consider him." His eyes remain steady on mine.
"I offered to do this because I wanted to protect this kid from his father, so I will do what I need to do to see that through, no matter what it takes. Of course Chris would show up out of the woodwork."
Warren is unflappable. "Lennon has an estate now. He has his mother's life insurance, a sizable 401k, and the Jacksonville house. My hunch? Chris wants control of that."
"Fuck." The word escapes before I can stop it. "You're right, that's exactly what this is about. For the record, I don't wanta cent. And neither does Camila. That's Lennon's, and it'll stay his."
He studies me, his head tilting slightly. "The court won’t just take your word for it. You’ll need to show a clear plan to safeguard those assets for him."
"How do I do that?"
"Propose a trust for Lennon. You can’t set it up yourself until you’re named permanent guardian, but you can make it part of your petition. It tells the court you’re not in this for the money, that you’re protecting him."
I drag a hand through my hair, the frustration a live wire under my skin. "So until the court rules, it’s just what? Hanging out there, waiting for vultures?"
Warren shakes his head. "The funds are frozen under probate right now. No one can touch them without court approval. But if Chris wins custody, he’ll have legal control of both Lennon and the money. That’s why you need to make the strongest case possible before the hearing."
A memory surfaces like a bruise being pressed. I was thirteen years old, waiting by the window all Saturday for Chris to show up. I can still see the rain rolling down the outside of the glass and feel Valerie's gentle hand on my shoulder when it got dark.He's not coming, baby.
"Mr. Carrigan?" Warren's voice pulls me back.
"I won't let Chris get him." My voice comes out rough.
"Alright, let's come up with a game plan. First thing, let's discuss the upcoming meeting with Ms. Black, the guardian ad litem."
He walks me through the process, step-by-step: the meeting, the questions, the observation. Dana Black already set the tempo: a joint observation, then the deep dive. My job is to look boringly stable.
My gut twists, acid burning in my stomach. I can already picture Chris strutting in with that swagger, baby face stretched into a smug grin, those mismatched tattoos peeking from his sleeves. He'll be ready and eager to push every button I have.
"And what am I supposed to do? Shake his hand? Make small talk?"
"You maintain your composure." Warren's eyes lock with mine. "Ms. Black will note any hostility between you. If you look like you're at war with Chris, she'll question how safe Lennon's environment is."
My palms leave damp prints on the polished table. "That bastard doesn't deserve the air he breathes, let alone custody of a kid."
"I understand. But this isn't about what Chris deserves. It's about what Lennon needs."
I close my eyes, forcing slow, deep breaths through my nose. Count to five. Hold. Release for eight. A technique from my college boxing days before matches.
"You're right." I open my eyes. "I'll handle it."
Warren passes me a pen. "Initial here, here, and sign at the bottom. This authorizes me to represent you at the hearing and file our response to Chris's petition."
The pen is heavy in my hand as I mark each page. Each signature binds me tighter to this responsibility I never asked for but now can't imagine walking away from.
"We have a strong case," Warren says as I stand. "But these things get messy. Be prepared."
I step outside,letting the glass door slide shut behind me. The cool night air is a welcome reprieve from the sterile meetings and legal documents that dominated my day.
My hair is damp from my shower, and the salt is a soothing balm on my skin.
Sloane doesn't notice me at first. She's curled into one of the chairs by the table, wine glass balanced on the armrest, hair falling loose around her shoulders.
The sunset casts her in gold, softening the edges of her profile as she stares out at the rhythmic crash of waves.
