Chapter 7 - My Hours
I worked fifty-eight hours the week before I found Emmett outside.
Sixty-one the week before.
Forty-nine before that.
I knew because custody evaluators ask.
Calendar.
Badge logs.
Company travel.
I had told myself:
He is asleep by eight.
What difference does it make if I come at nine-thirty?
It made a difference because Jocelyn knew I would not see bedtime.
I did not cause her choices.
My absence made them easier to hide.
Dr. Lowe asked me:
“Do you blame yourself?”
“Yes.”
“For her actions?”
“No.”
“Good. What do you own?”
“Not noticing.”
“How could you have noticed?”
“Come home.”
“Every night?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Harder.
Direct check-ins with Emmett.
Not only Jocelyn.
Video calls.
Talk to Maribel.
School.
Routine.
Ask open questions.
Not outsource emotional knowledge.
I had been calling Emmett from the car some nights.
Five minutes.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Brush teeth?”
“Yes.”
“Love you.”
That was not enough to uncover abuse.
Could a six-year-old have told me if I asked better?
Maybe.
Not guaranteed.
But I could have created more opportunity.
Then company.
I promoted my deputy, Marcus Hale, to operating director.
Not because scandal.
Because I needed to stop being the single point of failure.
My partners supported.
I cut late nights to two per week maximum during crisis.
No grand retirement.
No abandoning career.
Just better architecture.
Then the house.
Emmett and I moved back after court granted me exclusive temporary occupancy because Jocelyn had alternative housing and allegations involved the residence.
Not permanent property decision.
Emmett stopped at threshold.
“Jocelyn here?”
“No.”
“Grandma?”
“No.”
“Door locks?”
“Yes.”
He looked worried.
I crouched.
“Your bedroom door does not lock from outside.”
“Front?”
“Front locks to keep strangers out.”
“Me?”
“You live inside.”
He stared.
Then stepped in.
That sentence became therapy homework for me:
You live inside.
May you like
Not because it sounded poetic.
Because he needed repeated evidence.
