You pore over the paperwork; it’s hard to believe this is the same guy. Married. Working. And a new baby? What happened to his disdain for children? You think of North, how Graham backed away from parenting, washed his hands. The memories fill you with searing fury. Then it occurs to you that if he had any interest at all where his child was going to daycare, he already knew you were here.

You feel sick. In all likelihood, he has been closing in for weeks. Stalking your moves. Driving by your house. Breaking into your house. And, surely, calling up Jean at Hulu. Wrecking your dreams. That’s how it works with him. He doesn’t want you to be happy.

Next to his name on the application, he listed a separate cell phone number from Lauren’s, and that’s what you dial. He picks up right away, as if he already knew you’d be calling—and maybe that’s why he listed the cell phone, a cheeky little come and get me that he alone will answer, not his wife.

It’s painful to hear his voice—not in a nostalgic way but more with a knee-jerk shudder of revulsion. You tell him you have some things to discuss. You keep your voice controlled. He says he’s able to meet. You try not to sound too grateful. You give him a few time windows, most of them quite early in the morning, before the other parents—and Carson—arrive. He needs to work with your schedule, not the other way around.

The day comes. There’s a buzz at the office’s main door, but you don’t get it right away. A shiver runs up your spine. This hall is so desolate, the walls so thick. Your security guy hasn’t even shown up for the day yet. All of a sudden, meeting early sounds like a terrible idea.

Finally, though, you hit the buzzer. You hear the latch click and the heavy thump of the door as it swishes closed. Then come footsteps. And as he rounds the corner, you realize he’s not alone.

He’s brought his baby.

“Piper,” he says. He waits hesitantly in the hallway as though he’s as nervous as you are. But you can’t look at him, not really. All you can look at is the child, who is tucked into a little stroller, a blanket over his belly. Your insides go liquid. The kid’s eyes are the same as North’s. His fat little fingers. His socked little feet.

“This is Matthew,” he says, pointing. “Sorry I had to bring him. My wife . . . she was still sleeping. I didn’t want to bother her. We share the responsibilities.”

You want to throw your computer monitor at Graham’s head. There are so many things wrong with what he’s just said. He brought his son here as a tactic.